After a Dream
by Violescent
Summary: "If John was a man of the heart, and Sherlock was a man of the mind, how could they ever find common ground? " A Johnlock piece about loving despite having no heart and making exceptions in every step to keep that which you hold most dear. Involves lots of angst, drug abuse, violence, sex, and bad humour.
1. In his pocket

**Author's note**: For the longest time I've been wanting to write a Johnlock fanfic, many things coming in the way, but now that I've written the first chapter I really want to share it. I'm not a native speaker, and no one else have read it thus far. I leave it to your judgement.

* * *

**Chapter 1: In his pocket**

He pours the milk in the dark, bergamot scented tea, and watches the white spread like clouds in dark drenched sky. He inhales the familiar smell deeply, and lifts the cup to his thin lips with a slightly shaking hand. Whole body feels like it is being washed by waves of hot and cold, trembling and sweating at the same time. He has been nervous before – many near death situations come to mind, more than he is bothered to count. He, John Hamish Watson, was a soldier, with _nerves of steel_. But the little golden ring in his pocket is not a war he can bring guns to, not a case he can solve with his best friend, the consulting detective, and not a wound he can bandage up.

John realises he'd rather go on some wild chase in London streets with possible gunfire and dreadful mutilated bodies for him to examine, than face his lovely Mary on the other side of the table, glaring at him knowingly.

She probably _knows, _he tries to calm himself. Her favourite restaurant, in their one year anniversary, could it be more obvious? And if that does not give enough hints, she'll need one good look at his face to realise something is awfully wrong.

For a minute, he imagines the whole restaurant drowning in the sweat of one particularly nervous army doctor. The bill would be _massive_. He tries to make himself smile, but when he looks at the reflection in the kitchen's cupboard, it looks like a crooked grimace.

"John, will you hand me the Oxford dictionary?" a voice from the other side of the sitting room says calmly, ignoring the inner-storm the other man is going though at the kitchen sink. It doesn't sound much like a question, more like a command, but John is almost happy to have something to occupy himself with in the remaining thirty minutes.

John walks over to the bookshelf and glances back at his flatmate, lying upside down, with his back to the ground and feet on the soft seating, black curls draped on the carpet, fully suited, but barefoot.

"Which volume? "John asks and hears Sherlock sigh as though dealing with a child, and his face peers from the dark blue book that had previously covered his face to show a look that matches the noise he just made.

Only now John notices something off about his best friend's face, but can't quite place it.

"Hurry up." Sherlock says petulantly, his voice husky and deeper than usual.

"You still haven't told-"

Sherlock lets the book drop on his face and his arms fall to the ground on each side of him, as though he was ready to make a snow angel on the floor of their apartment.

"We have the newer edition of the Oxford dictionary, meaning there are a total of twenty volumes in the bookcase; you also probably know they are all in the distinct shade of blue and at the lower half of the bookcase, third from the bottom to be precise, and if you looked at least once before asking you'd see that I have every volume out but the very last that's left in the shelf, but of course you talk before you even _look_-"

"Alright, alright, I'm getting it, Jesus..." John mutters, grabbing the book and passing it to Sherlock, who motions indifferently with his hand to an empty place on the floor beside him.

Now that he's closer and Sherlock began reading the book again, John can examine his face a little better.

"Are you alright?" he asks, because Sherlock looks ill, or at least that is what John thinks he would look like if he was sick. _Or human_, he adds in his mind and smiles to himself.

"Are _you _alright?" Sherlock snaps and tosses the book away carelessly. John wants to note that the books were paid for in half and that he does not appreciate this sort of behaviour, but more important things are occupying his mind.

"No, not really, no." he answers, sighing deeply and straightening his back, his legs dangerously close to feeling like jelly_. I'm too old for this_, he thinks to himself.

"The restaurant you picked was a bad choice. Seeing that you won't change your mind, I suggest you don't order any seafood."

"I haven't told you which-"

"Yes, but seeing as you are going to propose to Mary, it is only logical that due to your nature you will pick the place that she prefers."

"I haven't told you I'm proposing either."

"Don't you get tired of this, John? I five year old could have guessed as much."

Now that John thinks about it, he can't think of a single time he gave out his intention to propose to Mary tonight. Unless, of course, Sherlock had gone through his things and found the ring somewhere in the week after John had bought it. Strangely enough, that possibility is not as surprising as the fact that he had been avoiding telling his best friend about such an important step in his life. It was not intentional… He can't quite place why he had behaved that way. John furrows his eyebrows.

Well, he reasons, Sherlock hates the idea of marriage. He would not shut up about how pointless it all is, and how John should just forget women and marry _the work_, and how much more important it is to know what kind of marks each tooth leaves on the skin of a corpse than to tie the knot with the woman you love.

There is no reason to upset him before John even knows Mary's answer.

Although, he reasons further, why should the thought of me getting married upset my best friend at all?

_Because your best friend is Sherlock_, answers the little voice in his head. Somehow, that explanation is more than enough.

He glances at the watch on his hand. Fifteen minutes until he has to leave.

John catches Sherlock observing his inner monologue and clears his throat. For a second, he envies Sherlock, for he will never have to deal with such a situation. _Not really my area, _John mocks in his head and almost laughs hysterically. The younger man raises a brow.

"What do you think?" John asks, motioning to his attire, and immediately regrets the action, as Sherlock stands up from the floor so suddenly it startles him, and dashes towards John like a man prepared to squash the fly he had been hunting for few days.

John takes a few steps back, but Sherlock is already invading his personal space, clever eyes running quickly across every bit of clothes he's wearing.

"The tie is newer than the suit – this is the first time you are wearing it, and you tried to match it to the rest of the attire, but these colours do not go together, and stripes are an obviously bad choice. The shirt is too loose, but I remember it was not loose before, so you must have lost weight. You have not been working out, or dieting, so it is probably the nerves – from the last week's case perhaps, but most likely emotional stress. It can't be the engagement, too short of a period for that, so it must have been other problems concerning the relationship, perhaps you are hoping to repair with the engagement itself-" he then bent down to hold John's sleeve before his eyes. "Cufflinks, old but never worn by you before; you're not the type of person to buy antiques – a family heirloom then, probably your father's. The shoes have been waxed, but not recent-"

"Yeah, okay, stop now."

Sherlock straightened his back and looked at John, pouting. His hand let go of John's sleeve.

"I just… I'm going crazy, Sherlock. I need some assurance."

Sherlock thought about it for a few seconds, his blue eyes drifting to the ceiling, and then returned the gaze to John, voice sounding oddly strict:

"She will marry you, John."

The doctor could not help but to let out a laugh.

"Uh, yes, right, you could have gone for something less grand, like 'you look nice' or 'the non-seafood meals are great', or 'John, you will definitely not throw up in the cab on your way', but I suppose this works, too."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in a familiar, people-are-all-idiots way and continued to speak in a slow, annoyed manner:

"The first two things are not true, and therefore I will not say them. As for the third, I have no means of knowing that."

John let out another laugh, but it was far from cheerful.

"But you _know_ she will marry me?"

The answer came immediately:

"Yes."

John looked confused and slightly taken aback, but Sherlock quickly added:

"No, I did not _ask_ her if she'll marry you, if that's what you're thinking."

John covered his face with his palms and sighed again, relieved, if only for a moment.

"So how _do_ you know?"

It was on that moment that nothing and everything happened at the very same time. If John Watson had left the flat fifteen minutes early and had not this conversation, two hearts could have been spared the pain, and one could have died a death it had waited for eagerly – but he had not left, and because of that, two hearts will break, and one will continue on bleeding despite its longing for an end.

Sherlock simply placed his palms on John's shoulders, as though straightening his jacket, and said warmly:

"John, if you don't leave right now, you'll be late."

But when John looked up to Sherlock's eyes to say that there was still time left, he could not speak a word. What he saw, was Sherlock's face with all its masks ripped off, all the roles he played tossed aside, all the irritation, coldness, indifference pushed away; he stood, as though naked in front of him, ribs torn apart to display the heart that tried desperately to break out of his chest, the fingertips on his shoulders barely touching the fabric, as though afraid of contact. The sadness in Sherlock's eyes was bigger than the sadness of the world.

It lasted for a moment so brief that John could have barely register its existence, before Sherlock's features shifted into a familiar smirk and his palms retreated from John, finding their way into Sherlock's pockets.

John tried his best not to come to conclusions based on what he just saw, but his thoughts were already in motion, much like when he was trying to deduce something when Sherlock prompted him only this time involuntarily.

"Yes, I… Yes, I'm leaving now."

In the cab, he tried his best not to think about that look in Sherlock's eyes, but _oh God_, his heart clenched into a tight knot each time he recalled the moment. _It's nothing_, he tried to tell himself, _it's nothing to worry about_, it's just Sherlock, but his imagination was already connecting various unrelated things and drawing conclusions.

The swollen eyes he saw today, the bleeding fingertips he took care of when Sherlock insisted he just wanted to play for two days straight, the huskiness of his voice, the… the _thing_ that happened a week before. Was it not a day after the purchased the ring?

No. _No no no no. Stop. _He could almost hear his own voice, the one he used in the army when he had to calm down a soldier in panic. _Stop. Take a breath. Get yourself together._

* * *

One week ago he came back early from work to find Sherlock seated on the couch as usual when there wasn't a case. _Bored_. He had recently solved a double murder, so it was no news to John that he'd be miserable for a while until something else came along.

"Hello." John greeted, taking off his jacket and heading towards the kitchen for tea.

"You're early." Sherlock replied, and the sound of his voice made John's whole body stiffen in terror. Something was wrong. He spoke slowly, lazily, but also as though he was in pain or very ill. John tossed the tea box on the table and darted towards the sitting room. He did not need to be a detective to immediately realise what has happened.

Tourniquet around his arm, just above the elbow, syringe on the table – empty, gaze vacant, body trembling, voice slow and dazed.

"Jesus, Sherlock…" he made his way to the sofa where his flatmate sat, still in his velvet bathrobe. John sat beside and touched his forearm, which was hot and trembling just like the rest of his body, looking for the places where he had injected the needle, counting three. Three little dots that made John's chest clench into a tight knot.

Sherlock, in return, did his best to ignore John, who sat wordless by his side. He kept looking into the distance, as though he was watching the telly, body completely relaxed except the occasional tremor passing though his every limb. John knew these were all signs of an overdose, as well as he knew that Sherlock was not the person to do that by accident.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" John finally asked, his voice angry with a hint of panic. The younger man did not reply. "Sherlock!"

The detective turned around to look at John with the most insolent facial expression John has ever seen. "Cocaine." Then he turned around to look at the opposite wall again, adding "go away, John."

"Fuck." John cursed, sliding his hand over to Sherlock's forehead, which he pushed away in a petulant manner, eyes still fixed on some non-existent object in the distance.

"Jesus Christ Sherlock, what the fuck were you thinking…"

"Leave, John."

"The fuck I will. I'm a doctor-"he began to raise his voice, but the look on Sherlock's face suggested that he should try a different approach. "Look, did something happen?"

He tried to take Sherlock's hand, but the man took the effort of sliding further away from him, right to the opposite end of the couch.

"I've done cocaine before; I don't need you babysitting me. I'm fine."

"Were those three all from today?"

"Can you not _tell_?" he rolled his eyes in as though they were arguing about origin of a stain of some suspects pants.

He could. The marks were all fresh.

"Show me the other hand."

"John…" his voice was lower now, less arrogant. "Leave it."

He didn't listen to Sherlock that day – he sat on the couch until the effects of the drugs faded and Sherlock moved onto playing his violin as though nothing had happened. A part of him wanted to punch the bloody idiot in the face and a part wanted to get to the bottom of it all, but all he managed was to quietly sit there and listen to the music. It was _Après un Rêve_. It was heart wrenching.

He looked at his best friend's back, both with hate and sadness, feeling the stress turn into helpless heartache. For he could do nothing to help, not that Sherlock would accept his help if he did. John must seem so small and insignificant in Sherlock's mind. So unimportant and petty, so _ordinary._ How he hated that.

Sherlock looked through the window, long fingers pressed to the strings with what it seemed was excess force. As the melody reached a high note, he closed his eyes and then John saw what he could only describe as grief. He did not look at John again on that day.

"Sir, we're here."

John touched his jacket at the place where the small box with the ring was. His future – in his pocket.

* * *

The first time Sherlock cries – the first time in decades, it comes unexpectedly. He's almost surprised when he runs his fingers across his cheek and it's wet from tears.

It does not take him long to make the deduction that John will propose to Mary – he knows it for certain one month into their relationship, perhaps even before John himself does. It does not surprise him, nor does he feel anything worthy of mentioning. It's just a fact, like any other.

And then John buys the ring, and Sherlock waits for him to announce his plans, but John doesn't. He waits for the entire day, but the doctor says nothing. He stays up all night thinking over various details and even browsing the internet for adds for a new flat he would rent now that John will be moving out. He thinks about how tedious it's going to be to move all of his experiments, and tries to calculate how much money he'd need to stay at Baker Street. He won't be needing the second bedroom. He would not get another roommate, he's certain. None would fit quite so well as John. He muses over a preferable location for a flat, if he moved after all. John's new address may be a factor, he realises. He needs to inquire about that.

And then he starts crying. He fights it half-heartedly, but then just allows the tears to flow. _Curious thing, to cry_, he thinks to himself, _such a pathetic way to succumb to one's emotions, but so very pleasing and impossible to stop at the same time._ He doesn't remember when he had last cried, perhaps only as a child. He cries before he knows why he does it.

The next day when John is working, Sherlock injects cocaine into his veins. Three times in a row. The first times are almost euphoric, the last one not so much. He feels the effects of overdose that are not all that unfamiliar – the cold creeping though his body, heart racing and limbs trembling, but above all the overwhelming paranoia that something awful is about to happen.

It does. John comes back home early and catches him red-handed. He is angry. Upset. Confused. Sherlock asks multiple times for him to leave because he can't stand to see John like this – he can't stand to hurt him in such a selfish way.

John does not leave. He sits there even after Sherlock's recovers and starts playing the violin, careful not to meet John's eyes. He knows that if he looks at John now, it will give out too much.

He doesn't think about what to play, and his hands travel on their own, and he realises halfway the song he's playing. _After a Dream._

He looks though the window. John's looking at him; he can feel and almost see the betrayed look on his face. He sees none of the Baker Street in front of him, so he closes his eyes.

_No. Don't dream, Sherlock Holmes. Not now when it's too late._

But he still thinks. What if John never met Marry? What if John didn't need a woman in his life? Would he stay with him… until they're old? Would John move to the country with him and what would he say about bee keeping? An image of John's aged face flickers in his mind. Yes, if John wanted to stay with him forever, Sherlock would welcome him to. And he is the only person in the world that has such privilege. He imagines the doctor sitting on the porch of a small country house and drinking his tea whilst reading a newspaper, only now he's wrinkled and his hair is fully grey. When he sees Sherlock, he barely nods and continues reading news but Sherlock doesn't mind the lack of attention, because they grew old together, and that really the only thing Sherlock wants.

A few days later John throws a fit about Sherlock's left hand's fingertips that are apparently bleeding from pressing on the strings – Sherlock hadn't noticed. He had played violin for few days straight before, so he suspects the blood is a result of pressing too hard. He hadn't noticed doing that either.

John insists on disinfecting the wounds and tells Sherlock not to play until they healed. He agrees, but still plays when John is not at home.

He thinks to himself what life was like before he met John, as the doctor holds his hand cleaning the wounds; that wrinkle visible on his nose that means he's angry but concentrated.

It was alright.

Sherlock knows it won't be alright again.

* * *

On the eve of John's proposal, he cries again only this time he knows why. He rips the bandages off of his fingers and tosses them on the floor and then opens up the secret compartment in his chest of drawers, takes it contents out and rolls up his sleeve. He feels disgusted when he hears his own sobs and as he injects the substance into his own blood stream tries to come to terms with all he had deduced about himself.

But it is not until tomorrow that he places it in words.

"John, if you don't leave right now, you'll be late."

He says, and suddenly he knows.

_I'm so sorry it took me so long, John. You see I never deduced things about my own heart before. _

_But it is quite obvious now, as it is always. _

_I've solved the case, but the murder is yet to be done._

_I never thought I had a heart to begin with – I doubt it will put up much of a fight._

_But I can be persistent, if it does._

John leaves with a ring in his pocket.

Lestrade called him few hours after John left, asking him to come to the morgue as soon as possible. A body has disappeared! The detective quickly dressed up and dashed through the door, wondering whether the corpse has walked out itself or had a bit of help. He thanks the God he does not believe in for giving him something to do instead of sitting and waiting for John to return.

"How fresh was the corpse?" he asked Lestrade and Molly instead of greeting them whilst entering the room, and Molly immediately replied with "two hours" not bothering to say hello either.

It took them the whole night to catch the runaway dead man, much longer than it should have, but Sherlock only blamed the indiscretion of Lestrade's men.

"Apparently dying is a good way to escape your debts." The detective inspector said as he stood facing the Thames, watching the sun rise, colouring their surroundings with dull shades of grey. Exhausted, he lit and cigarette and put it between his chapped lips, kicking a rock that lay on near the water.

"Give me one. "Sherlock demanded, stretching out his hand, and this time Lestrade didn't bother lecturing him. It had been an awful night and both men understood that they clearly deserved a good smoke.

"You look awful." Greg stated glancing over Sherlock's tired face.

Sherlock didn't reply. Even though the case was over, Lestrade knew that what he saw was Sherlock's 'thinking' face.

"Do you need a lift to Baker Street?"

"I'll take the cab."

"Are you… are you alright, Sherlock?"

He exhaled a large cloud of smoke and replied, looking at the calm water of the Thames:

"No, but I will get it sorted."

* * *

John was awake and sitting on his chair, reading some kind of medicinal book. It was four in the morning. When Sherlock took of his coat and walked over to give his congratulations, John just shook his head and asked instead:

"What was the case?"

Sherlock sat on his chair opposing John's and replied:

"A corpse that escaped from the morgue."

"Oh?"

"Impossible to pull this off without inside help. But we already found who's responsible. Easy. Catching him, however, took the entire night."

"You reek of cigarettes." John accused.

"You didn't get engaged." Retorted Sherlock.

The doctor took a deep breath and closed the book.

"Obviously."

"But why? I know she would have said yes, had you asked, so you _did not ask her_, but why not? You did not forget the ring, you dined at the restaurant, you came back home after spending roughly four hours in her company. What stopped you?"

"Can we not talk about this?" John asked, running his hand though his light hair and trying hard not to meet his friend's eyes. He took out the ring box out of his pocket and upon looking at it with disgust, threw it on the sofa. It bounced and landed on the ground. "You know this is not your area."

"Did she order the seafood and got sick?" Sherlock offered.

"Oh my God, Sherlock." John stood up, and he was suddenly very angry. "You think there's a logical explanation for fucking _everything_."

"Because there is." Sherlock said, placing the fingertips of opposing hands against each other in the familiar way.

"I'm going to sleep." John announced and left without bothering to picking up the ring box.

Once the doctor was upstairs, Sherlock took it and peeked inside. It was a lovely ring, but it was the man that Mary would have never refused. Why didn't John propose? Did he change his mind? Oh, how pleasant was the thought.

Inside his bedroom, John angrily ripped his suit and tie off and dropped in his bed like a sulking teenage boy. _What the fuck are you doing, Watson?_ He remembered Mary's expression at the end of the night. Even she could sense that he was supposed to propose, given the date and the place, and then when he refused to spend the night at her place… No, he did not know what he was doing. He was only certain it was somehow all Sherlock's fault.

Sherlock sat in his chair for hours, until the sun rose high and the room was flooded by its golden light, little bits of dust dancing in the air. _Vashta Nerada_, John would say, after watching that ridiculous show on the telly.

How does Sherlock Holmes not know about the solar system, but remembers something completely unimportant that John Watson had mumbled months ago?

Because _John_ is important.

And Sherlock Holmes must do everything he can to make him stay.

* * *

Author's note: that last bit was a reference to Doctor Who, I could not resist. The song that Sherlock plays is real and you can listen it on youtube if you wish. Please leave a review.


	2. 1989

**Chapter 2: 1989**

"I am so glad you've agreed to help me, no other private detec-"

"_Consulting detective._"

"Yes, well. Thank you, Mr Holmes."

Ex-soldier. Single, but has an occasional one-night-stand. Confident. Frequent patron at pubs. Rich, but only acquired the money recently.

"So then, tell me more about the letters." Sherlock leaned slightly towards the potential client who sat in front of him, relaxed in the chair as though it was his sitting room.

"Letters from a fellow soldier. Who has been dead for five years. Killed in action."

"Practical joke?" Sherlock offered.

"He mentions things only he and I would know. Perhaps some of the stuff was public knowledge but… These are private things, things happen in the war, Mr Holmes, and it's an unspoken rule not to talk about them." He sounded very calm. "Well, you see I wouldn't have bothered you if these were just papers, but recently Jude mentioned one particular guy we didn't like too much, and a week later I get a call, the guy's dead."

"I see. Can you tell me…"

The door opened and John walked inside, Tesco bag in his hand.

"Evening." He greeted, dropping the milk on the floor to take off his jacket.

"Can you tell me more about the friend?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John completely and focusing on his guest, who did not interest him and much as he would normally require clients to, however after yesterday he figured any case will help his otherwise bad situation.

The potential client, however, was completely captured by John's sudden appearance in the flat.

"Watson?" he asked, standing up from the chair, eyes wide in surprise, but his lips had already formed a warm smile.

It took John a moment to realise who it was, but when he did, he too smiled and walked over to shake hands with the man.

"Smith." John said, taking the man's hand and that was when Sherlock realised something was off in their interaction.

"Of all the people to run into…" Eric Smith placed his both hands on John's and shook it wholeheartedly. "So, you're solving crimes now?"

"He solves crimes, I blog about it." John replied, blushing slightly.

"Never thought of you as much of a writer, Watson." There was something in his voice that made Sherlock grimace in irritation. "Then again you had talent for other things."

John's face went red as a beetroot.

"Are you alright?" the doctor asked, some kind of awkwardness between them. "I mean, to seek a detective…"

"Well, I've been getting letters from Malcolm…"

"What, Malcolm Lawson? "John's face had suddenly lost all colours.

"Yeah."

They sat down and Eric continued telling Sherlock and John all the facts. The detective noted some kind of tension in the air that had nothing to do with the case. The soldier kept glancing at John as though he was really fond of seeing him again, but John had avoided looking at his friend.

The topic was not of the most cheerful, but Sherlock could tell there was more to it than that.

After he was done, Eric turned to John.

"Well, if there's nothing else I can tell you I best get going."

"I'll see you out." John offered, and they both left the room.

_Interesting_, Sherlock thought. Has he been not entirely accurate in judging John's character?

Few minutes later, he heard the familiar stride on the stairs and John re-appeared in the room, holding a card_. Eric already gave me one, so this has another purpose_, Sherlock decided, narrowing his eyes.

John went into the kitchen and started making tea. When he came back with a cup in his hand, he found Sherlock eyeing him with interest.

"What?"

"What do you think of the case?"

"Seems a bit… far-fetched." John replied honestly.

John turned on the TV and started watching the evening news.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, examining John's face. Sherlock could tell that John was disturbed by the case, but there was something else. Something about Eric, and it was not entirely _unpleasant_ to the doctor.

"You don't believe this is a real case, do you?" John asked.

"John, I understand Eric was your friend, but I'm not going to waste my time unless the letters prove to have any _real_ connection to any _real_ events."

"Alright. Fine."

"I'll run a fingerprint check on the letters anyway."

"Okay."

It had grown dark outside and they sat now in half-light of the room, in silence, except for the television set on low volume. Sherlock knew John could not hear what the reporters were saying, it was merely background noise.

"You and Eric were involved."

"We were in Afghanistan together, yes."

"Physically, I meant."

"Shit" John exclaimed silently as he spilled tea all over his trousers and then looked at Sherlock, who had the most serious expression on his face, as though he had just found someone guilty of murder.

"I am correct then."

"No." John shook his head, lifting his eyebrows and looking anywhere but Sherlock. "No, I am not talking about this, not with you." He tried to wipe off the brown liquid from the fabric with his sleeve but ended up smearing it even more.

Sherlock did not inquire further – he could already deduce most of it, at least the part that mattered. Meaningless physical contact during a time when you don't care too much about morals or reputations, and someone you trust, someone who needs the exact same thing as you do. That's not unusual in the army. It makes sense.

_Meaningless_. _Was that a fact or wishful thinking of my part_, Sherlock asked himself bitterly.

"Don't mention this to Mary, alright?" John said after a while. He had turned off the TV and had stood up from the chair, ready to head upstairs.

_Mary_. He had completely forgotten about that woman for a while, but it was not like John had broken up with her – there was still a chance he'll propose to her on another occasion.

"I won't." Sherlock said. John probably did not want to remember that part of his service for _Queen and country_. Perhaps he even regrets it. But he took Eric's card.

"Good. Thanks." he headed towards the stairs.

"John."

"Yes?" he turned around.

"Goodnight."

* * *

Sherlock lay in his bed with his clothes on, listening to rain that started to pour on the dark stained streets of London, quietly drumming on the glass window. The light has been turned off and he had sunken into complete darkness, eyes closed and hands tidily placed on his chest as though for a prayer. He listened to John walk around upstairs, imagining the things that he might be doing.

He sits on the bed. Pause. Stands up again, walks two steps – to the wardrobe. Pause. Steps back to bed. Sherlock can hear it squeak, so he can picture almost exactly where and how John had sat. After a bit John lies down again. It's a bit chilly; he perhaps took a jumper to sleep in. One of those ridiculous ugly jumpers that say nothing of John's true character.

A soldier. Loyal, patient. Courageous. Tough.

John's room is always colder. Perhaps Sherlock should buy him a thicker blanket as a gift?

John had sex with Eric. Sherlock never seemed to give John's physical relationship's much thought, be it Mary or any other woman he used to date. They're all dull, and tiny-minded. So is Eric, but it's different.

With the women, he could never put himself into their place. John liked them because of their appearance – he seemed to prefer down-to-earth, cute, but not obviously sexy type. He'd notice them, and then initiated action…

But Eric was a man. And there was no time for flirting, or holding hands, or dinners…

What was that _like?_

He tried imagining himself as Eric, playing out a scene in his mind, but after a while he could not stand placing himself in another man's shoes. Instead, he merely imagined what it would be like for _him_ and John to be in Afghanistan together. John would be even more tan then when they first met. Focused on work. _Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. __Assistant Surgeon._

Sherlock was really out of his depth when it came to John's _physical_ side. What would he do? Ask him? John seemed too shy for that but perhaps he was different in the army. He was a man of action, not words though, so perhaps he would simply…

Bend him over a table, or some other surface of the right height. Strip him from the waist down. Place his tan hands to either sides of Sherlock's waist. Pull him in. No words, no glances. Just skin on skin. And then into the battlefield next day. Into hell.

But that John was not _his_ John. His John wore cuddly sweaters, drank tea, and smelled like home. His John wanted to love and be loved.

And Sherlock Holmes was not the one he loved, or one who could love back.

Did he still have one more dose of cocaine? If he did, then perhaps tomorrow he'll have the decency to tell John that he needs to propose to Mary. He could manage that.

Because that part was the truth. The lie would be in the unsaid things.

_I need you._

_I don't want you to leave._

_I want to grow old with you._

Suddenly, a voice came from the doorway to his room:

"Sherlock?"

John stood there, in his pyjamas, jumper, and the old, stripy bathrobe hanging open, his hair ruffled. It was too dark to see the expression on his face. The detective should have heard John come down the stairs, but he was too busy thinking about _other surfaces of the right height, cocaine, and planning to lie through his teeth._

"John?"

"Uh, I saw your door open… I didn't wake you?"

"No. What do you want?"

"Do you have any- anything to drink?"

John often went to the pub with the Yard's guys, but he usually never drank at home. Usually. Clearly now was an exceptional time in John's life. Problems with Mary, meeting people from the past you are not so eager to remember, possibly hard day at work. _Me doing cocaine_, Sherlock added, the rare feeling of guilt filling his every cell. He was so careless, John should have never known.

"Go wait in the sitting room." Sherlock instructed, getting up from his bed and starting to dig in big piles of clutter as though an archaeologist trying to discover ancient fossils.

The doctor put a bit of firewood into the fireplace, crumpled a page of the paper, and tossed it inside, followed by a lit match. Once he was sure the wood was on fire, he sat on his chair and sighed deeply.

Two weeks ago everything was _fine_. Well, as fine as it got for him, anyway. Now, things seemed complicated in ways that he logically could not pinpoint. Was he getting cold feet? Why did Eric have to appear now, of all times? And Sherlock, going on drugs again… He felt the sudden urge to run away from all this confusion, but since he was too tired to even dress up properly, alcohol was the next best thing, as far as taking a vacation of the mind went.

He saw Sherlock come out of his room with a wine bottle in his hand. Without saying anything the detective gave the bottle to John and sat in his own chair, looking at the fire. Its light coloured Sherlock's sharp handsome features with warm tones, his blue eyes glistening like they would when he was deep in thought, his hands were stapled together, legs crossed. He was still fully dressed, but had put on his blue cashmere dressing gown on top of the suit.

"1989?" John exclaimed, looking at the label, but none of the other things written meant anything to him. "This… I can't drink this."

"It is alcohol, is it not?"

"Yes, but… Sherlock, this probably costs more than I earn in a month!"

"It does. I got it from a client before I met you. She thought it would impress me."

"It would have impressed _me._" John stated.

"Yes but everything impresses you. Besides, I opened it already. Just drink, that's what you want, right?"

John stood up and went into the kitchen, returning with two glasses.

"What do you need a glass for? _Two_ glasses?" Sherlock asked, noting that John did not turn on a single light, but rather searched in the dim light of the fireplace, as though not wanting to ruin the atmosphere. People had the strangest ideas.

"What, you want me to drink out of the bottle? 1989 wine, and you want me to drink it like a homeless person? Anyway, the second glass is for you."

"I'm not drinking, John."

"No? Because I thought- well, I thought you'll keep me company, seeing you're not sleeping either."

The detective felt warmth spreading throughout his body, but the fireplace had nothing to do with it. He allowed himself a quick glance at John, but their eyes met immediately, and John was smiling hopefully. Why can't it always just be the two of them?

"Fine." Sherlock said, taking one glass and letting John pour some wine, which looked almost black in this lighting.

"Yeah, I could not tell this from the ten quid wine from Tesco." John said after he had a taste.

When their eyes met again, both men began laughing.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, drinking and listening to the rain and the crackling fireplace. Sherlock never felt half this intimate with anyone else, or anywhere else in his entire adult life. He wondered if the other man felt the same when he was with Mary as Sherlock felt with John – this strange sensation of serenity, this mutual silence that coated him like a warm layer of wool and this unspoken hope for the moment to never pass.

He saw the wrinkles of John's forehead straighten and his gaze becoming less worried, less full of unpleasant thoughts.

"You're wasting this on me, you know. I imagine this would speed up any date to the… err, _final destination_." John said, after his third glass, looking slightly drunk.

"Is that so?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Oh, definitely. It would be so easy being you. Just get them good wine, play some violin… Our entire flat would be flooded with foreign underwear and I'd officially be out of chances to ever get laid. So, perhaps it's good you're not interested then, at least now other men in London have a chance."

"_Foreign underwear_?" Sherlock repeated, raising a brow. John giggled.

"Sorry, that sounded better in my head. I'm drunk now."

"Yes, I can see that." Sherlock took a deep breath. When you have a bandage on your skin, do you pull it off slowly, or all at once? It hurts more if you choose the latter, but it ends quicker. _All at once, Sherlock_.

"John, I think you'd be happy with Mary. Why don't you propose to her?"

"What, are you on the side of marriage now? Is that alcohol does to _you_, turns you into a normal person, talking about _feelings_?"

"John…"

"I don't know Sherlock, it's complicated. Relationships are complicated. There's no love/not love binary value in one's head. I can't be like you, all work and experiments and _types of tobacco ash_." He said the last part in horrible Sherlock impersonation. "I want to care about someone, cuddle, fool around, and kiss in the rain and all that other stuff you label as unimportant."

"Is Mary not suitable for all of that?"

"Stop talking about people like they were objects. She is but… Mary loves me, and that's more than enjoying to do stuff together."

"And you don't love her in return?"

There was a pause before John replied.

"Not as much, I think." It seemed that his own words surprised him. "Oh God, I think that's it. I can't believe you're listening to all of this. Isn't this tedious to you?"

"Very much so."

John smiled and poured the rest of the wine in his glass and smiled at Sherlock.

"I feel better now."

"You do?" Sherlock asked, slightly confused because none of John's problems really seemed to be solved.

"Mhm." John nodded and sat back in his chair. "I think I drank the entire bottle myself after all. You just had the one glass." He did not sound angry.

"Would you mind if I played?" Sherlock asked, pickup up the violin.

"Are you fingers better now?"

"Yes."

"Can I see them?"

The detective sighed, and walked over to John to give him his hand. The doctor's fingers ran gently across the damaged calluses and then wrapped around Sherlock's hand, pressing it gently. John's thumb slid across the back of his hand in a caressing motion and Sherlock's heart jumped as though someone had injected adrenaline into it.

"Alright." John said, letting go, and Sherlock sat in front of him again, taking the violin into his hands. He could still feel the warmth of John's palm as he played the first notes of the piece that his flatmate loved. Recognition spread all over John's face and Sherlock stood up to look at the street, hiding a smile that he could not hold back.

Whatever will happen, he'll always have this moment to think of.

* * *

The next day John went to Mary's.

* * *

Author's note: I've already written the next chapter and will upload it soon. Please leave a review and tell me what you think : )


	3. No coincidences

**Chapter 3: No coincidences**

"We're taking a break. Break!"

"Oh-uh. That's not good." Harriet replied, taking a sip of the coffee John bought her. They sat in a small café; at 6pm in the afternoon the place was crowded with teenagers, their voices filling the room. They both sat by the window, facing each other. John looked at his sister like he was about to pick up the salt shaker and toss it at the wall.

It was getting colder now by each passing day. The air smelled different and the days grew shorter, the rain was heavier and the sunlight dimmer. John loved the autumn – crawling in bed with a loved one, drinking hot tea, reading a book, wearing his favourite jumpers. But it seemed that this year there will be much less of that. A lot of people seemed to be affected by autumn depression – there were more crimes during this period, far more suicides and divorces. _Look at me, joining in on the fun._

"Bit not good. And you know what? I really thought I loved her, and I should feel sad but I'm just relieved. Relieved! What does that say about me?"

"Maybe you're just not ready for marriage, John."

"Harry, look at me. I'm old! I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

"Not all people marry John, and that's fine, don't you think?"

"But I _want _to get married."

"Then maybe Mary just wasn't the one?"

"Oh, if anyone was the one, it would be her. Look she's the only person I ever dated who tolerated all the crazy, dangerous stuff – wouldn't get mad when I would run off to a crime scene with Sherlock, wouldn't try and stop me from doing the things I like, she was the perfect woman."

"You're using past tense."

"Yeah… I'm pretty sure that it's over. She cried like it was over, at least."

John knew that with the words he said, he broke Mary's heart. How does one react when the person you care about says 'I don't love you as much as you'd want me to', like there was some kind of scale to measure the feeling? But John knew it to be true, he knew that deep inside all the wanted was to care for someone, and that he was in love with the idea of being in love. Mary was a good woman, but could some other woman take her place? Probably. He dated a lot of women before Mary, and they'd always leave him – and it hurt, but being the one that hurts was a far worse feeling. When you break up with someone because they cheated, or did something inexcusable it's different than basically saying 'you love me too much'. Sure, they said they'll take a break, but he'd watched enough sitcoms with Mrs Hudson to know that's just like choking someone instead of shooting them in the head – slower and more painful, with the exact same result.

"Oh John…" his sister put her hand on his in sympathy and he smiled sadly at her.

"Things weren't going well before, but we both sort of thought we'd pull through. Get engaged, start a family, I don't know. She knew I got cold feet at the end. Aren't you supposed to be blinded by love or something? Crave to be with the one? Aren't you supposed to know, without doubt, that you want to spend the rest of your life with that person?"

"Well… It was something like that between me and Clara, but it still didn't work out. I mean in these things it's always a gamble…"

John rubbed his tired face and drank his espresso in one go, washing it down with some water.

"Then there's Sherlock. He's just being… Well, he's doing drugs. That's one thing. His mind seems to be elsewhere, even more so than usual. I saw him playing his violin, and God, there was blood all over the strings, and he did not even seen to notice. And this one time he gave me this look… Just before I left on that date when I was supposed to propose. Jesus, I don't even know…"

"You don't think that's a coincidence, do you?"

"What?"

"You and Mary and Sherlock. You talk about it like they are completely separate parts of your life, but obviously they're not, because they share you."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh John, don't get all defensive, I'm just saying-"

"Look, Sherlock doesn't work like that. He doesn't want me to marry because he knows it will keep me from working with him all the time. But I think these little parts of my life that are not ruled over by Sherlock are the only things keeping me sane."

"So Mary is a little part?"

"Oh shut up."

"You know, I've never met Sherlock, but what you described sounds like depression, so perhaps you need to help him."

"Oh, yes, because that's so easy to do. He's-"

"He's Sherlock, yes. But look, if he's in pain, then he is definitely human. Perhaps you ought to try the basic approach."

"What's that?"

"Tea? Chocolate? Hugs?"

"Hug Sherlock? You know yesterday I took his hand and he reacted like I had pointed a gun at him."

"Hm. Maybe no one really touches him in that way." She took another sip of the hot beverage. "Maybe no one touches him at all."

* * *

When John came back home, Sherlock was in the kitchen, looking at something placed under the microscope. When the doctor entered the room, he barely lifted his eyes to give John a glance, and returned to his experiment, which seemed to be disturbingly familiar to parts of the toes he kept in the fridge for two weeks.

Sherlock knew a few things. First, John was at Mary's yesterday, and came back roughly at 1am in the morning, but he had stopped for takeout before returning home. Second, he just came back from a meeting with his sister, with whom he had a cup of coffee. Third, he had not proposed to Mary. The Chinese food containers and the coffee stain on the new shirt were obvious clues. He knew John had met his sister, because it was too early for a date with Mary (Sherlock had memorised her schedule, because it affected John's free time), and John did not go out for coffee with any of his male friends, especially not to a place that sells cookies with ridiculous smiley faces that John had brought back in bag and placed it near the kettle. As for the engagement, John could not have proposed, because Sherlock had hid the ring under the sofa, and it was still there.

Sherlock thought it was John's own fault he tossed the ring box so carelessly. It was totally possible for it to roll under the sofa, and even if it didn't originally, Sherlock helped it a little.

"How is the toe experiment going?" John asked, making tea, his back turned to his flatmate.

"I think I ruined this batch, should have kept it on lower temperature. Will need to get more from Molly."

"Oh. You think you could flirt your way into obtaining one of the lab's freezers, too? That would way this one" he pointed at their fridge "would hold food only?"

"No." Sherlock said slowly, filling out an excel sheet with numbers only he knew meaning of.

"Though so." John said as the water boiled, and poured it over two teabags in two cups, and put sugar in one of them. "Here, drink this."

Sherlock shot him a wary look, but took the cup by its handle and pulled it closer to where he was sitting.

"And eat this." John reached into the bag with the cookies and placed it in front of Sherlock's laptop.

"John, what…"

"Just drink and eat this."

"John…"

"Just. Okay?" John sat on a chair beside and grabbed his cup, watching Sherlock in a similar manner to that in which Sherlock watched the bit of half frozen toe.

Sherlock almost refused to eat the monstrosity that was the cookie (it was at least five times the size of a regular one, and it had a _face_), but then he felt too curious about the situation. It looked as though John was… carrying out an experiment, for the lack of a better term.

Only when he was finished (it didn't taste as badly as Sherlock anticipated), John stopped eyeing him and so carefully and sat a little more relaxed in the chair.

"Good." He stated, clearly evaluating the results of his research into Sherlock eating humongous cookies that smiled, as though happy to be chewed up.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose so high they reached his hairline.

"Are you okay, John?"

"Yes. Can you stand up, though?" he asked, as he got off the chair.

Sherlock was not used to being on the receiving side of the strange requests, but he decided to indulge in John's madness out of sheer curiosity. He stood up, buttoning up his jacket, and waited for John's next command, but it never came.

John took a step closer and very slowly, as though trying to tame a wild animal, wrapped his arms around Sherlock's broad shoulders and pressed himself to his torso.

Sherlock froze up as John's scent and warmth hit him like a wave hits the breakwater during a storm. He ceased to breathe, and his eyes grew wide, staring into the distance, but seeing blank. He blinked a few times as John embraced him more confidently and tightly, John's arms feeling less stiff around his shoulders.

John's blonde hair brushed against his neck as John adjusted his stance, and Sherlock mouth opened in shock as he realised what was happening.

The first few seconds, John thought there was a good chance of physical violence following his daring act, but as nothing continued to happen, and Sherlock did not retreat, he embraced him more naturally, even though that word did not do justice to how it really felt to hug Sherlock.

There was such a lack of reaction that John began to wonder if being punched would have been better. Sherlock stood exactly as he did before John embraced him, his arms dangling by his sides, and his back straight, face turned to the wall, completely still and silent.

And then Sherlock's chest moved as he inhaled, and John realised the man had been holding his breath the whole time, and nearly pulled away right then, out of sheer realisation that Sherlock was _really_ not okay with people touching him.

_Damn you, Harry_, he thought, wondering of how he can turn this situation into something less awkward, when Sherlock's palms landed gently on his back.

It felt like no hug between friends should. Both because it was so awkward and badly done, and also because it was somehow so very intimate.

Sherlock's palms moved upwards until they were spread across John's upper back, fingers spread apart, pressure slightly stronger at the fingertips, but still very faint. He didn't know what he was doing, John could tell that much.

John pulled away slightly to meet Sherlock's gaze and almost gasped as he saw the icy blue irises covered almost completely by pupils blown so wide, it seemed like he was staring into a pair of black eyes.

_Oh my God._

"Uh… Would… Do you want some more tea?" John asked, pulling away and hurrying to the kettle, unable to look at those eyes again without completely losing it. _What was that… Jesus… _He had never seen another human being look at him like that. His heart had suddenly decided to jump out through his throat and flop on the ground, like a bag of mince.

"Yes." Sherlock replied, sitting back in his chair and looking through the microscope lens as he had before. Either John had just imagined the whole thing, or Sherlock was incredibly good at hiding things. He was also probably unaware that his pupils had spoken more about his feelings than his mouth ever did.

John poured the sugar with a trembling hand and passed the cup to Sherlock who took it without taking eyes off the chart in the laptop's screen.

"I broke up with Mary." John said, out of panic.

"Oh." Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

_Fuck_, John thought, now even more confused by Sherlock's coolness. Didn't this whole disaster have a purpose?

Oh.

"Sherlock, I've been meaning to talk to you about something."

Sherlock glared at him as parents look at their children who bother them about crayons while they're watching important news. John wanted to punch him in the face.

"It's about the cocaine."

There was very little else on Sherlock's mind but John. He hasn't been this close physically to another person in most of his adult life, and he was very fine by that. The idea of another person's skin on his was nauseating. Of course, there were handshakes and obligatory kisses on the cheek on same occasions, but never full body contact. Well, unless there was fighting involved…

But with John, he didn't mind so much. John and his soft jumper, smelling like tea, men's shampoo, windy London streets in autumn, and just _John_, caring, strong, faithful. Warm against his chest, holding him close with his arms as though Sherlock could run away.

_How silly John, I couldn't even breathe much less move._

"What about it?" Sherlock replied with the best cold voice he could manage now. He knew that John hugged people all the time, that he was used to contact, and would have been completely not good if John knew what it did to _him._ He needed John to stay. He would have concealed an open fracture if he had to.

"Can you… Have you done more since the time I saw you?"

"Once." He replied honestly, because John could have easily checked whether he was lying or not.

"Okay. Actually, not okay. You have to stop it, alright?"

"John, I do believe that's my own-"

"No. No. Please, Sherlock, stop. Just…" John seemed to really be struggling with words. "It's bad for you. London needs you, and that shit is not doing favours to your health."

"I'm aware of the negative side effects-"

"Side effects!" cried John "You dying is not a fucking side effect, okay? Now show me where you keep it." The doctor's tone of voice sent shivers down his spine. Clearly, that was his army-command voice, strict and intimidating. Sherlock pressed his lips together petulantly.

"Fine."

As they headed towards his room, Sherlock thought about other places he could conceal the drugs in, now that John will know about this one. He wasn't planning on going cold turkey, but he'd be careful enough so that John will think he has.

* * *

John sits in his room, staring into the pages of a detective novel, but his mind feels like an old VHS player, rewinding the same tape over and over again. Mary is gone from his life – her tears fall on his heart like acid, leaving bleeding, festering wounds. Sherlock left the flat for something else other than a case – John is too afraid to ask. The sight of the detective's punctured arm also falls on his conscience, as he begins to understand what part exactly he is playing in that.

He wishes in selfishness that Sherlock had never slipped up and shown him what's under that cool exterior. All John wants is to at least have their friendship, but you can't play a fair game once your opponent had shown you all of his cards.

How is it that John, who only wanted to love and be loved, had hurt the two people he cared about so much? And he already lost Mary, will he lose Sherlock too?

John is confused, sad and drenched in guilt – all he wants now is to run away from everything. But John Watson is not the kind of man who succumbs to such desires. He hasn't got a map to the place where he's going, but he'd rather get shot than lose that which matters.

He picks up his phone.

_Wine from Tesco. 2011. Tonight? –JW_

* * *

**Author's note:** Please review and tell me what you think about the story so far! I'll post the next chapter shortly.


	4. Loss of blood and other things I

**Chapter 4: Loss of blood and other things, Part 1**

_In restless dreams I walked alone  
Narrow streets of cobblestone  
'Neath the halo of a street lamp  
I turned my collar to the cold and damp  
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light  
That split the night  
And touched the sound of silence_

* * *

It was raining again when Sherlock left Baker Street and took a cab to one of the more distant parts of London. As he sat in the backseat and watched the raindrops race against the glass, he went over his options in the current situation.

John had broken up with Mary – although it happened very fast, and was, perhaps a temporary phase in their relationship. This by no means meant that John was happy with the current situation, or would stop looking for someone else. Sherlock's reasoning went as follows: either John will be unhappy, or he will be with someone.

Therefore, indirectly, John's happiness depended on him moving out.

_On leaving me._

Unless of course, when you eliminate the impossible (such as, John suddenly becoming uninterested in relationships), that which remains are all possibilities that can, in fact, happen. The probability rates on some of them are very low – but they are not 0. For instance, a monkey, randomly smashing a keyboard has a possibility to accidentally write Hamlet – but the odds are quite low. But you can never say it's _impossible, _only highly improbable.

Just as it was highly improbable for John to find that which he needs in Sherlock himself. It was as probable as a mindless hitting of keys producing an immortal piece of literature lasting throughout the ages.

Looking at it from another point of view, however… If someone told you – a monkey has written Hamlet, your first thought would be – cheating. A super intelligent ape, or someone dabbling with the test results.

So how does Sherlock cheat in _this_? If someone wanted to falsify the results of the Hamlet test, they'd definitely have to have the original play at hand. It is only logical that Sherlock would need to know _exactly_ what John needs – to the very last, trivial detail.

Inside his mind palace, Sherlock had a room for John. Only Mycroft had shared that privilege. It surprised Sherlock how much clutter he had allowed in there – how many non-important facts and observations, John's favourite football team, brand of his shampoo, which shoes were meant for dates and which he wore to work; how his hair smelled after he spent the day in the park, and the sound of him chewing a biscuit during his afternoon tea. The whole room was in disarray with the amount of things it had to contain – but somehow Sherlock could not bring himself to delete even the tiniest bit. There were facts that Sherlock was not quite sure about – names and numbers that were somehow connected to John. _Tom Baker, Arsenal, Twinnings, 7,_ _Sarah,_ the list went on stating various telephone numbers and clothing sizes; it seemed that he kept _everything_ without filtering.

And still, there was so much he did not know. What does the scar on John's shoulder look like? How does his skin taste like? Does John ever cry when no one is looking? When he lies awake at night, what does he think about?

The cab finally reached his destination and Sherlock got out after paying, taking a good look at the building before him.

It was an abandoned house that squatters had taken in for themselves – they managed to connect electricity and install the light bulbs, bring in furniture and various appliances, even décor – Sherlock saw a few fresh plants beside the wall as he made his way to the entrance of the almost cosy crack house.

As he walked in, a few young adults, dressed in leather jackets and combat boots gave him hostile looks, but as he continued into the house as though knowing his way, one of them muttered: "junkie" and they disappeared into the room from which a thick smell of cooked beans was coming from.

The inside of the house had it walls painted with pastels and graffiti – pictures of crooked faces of various bright colours, naked bodies of women and detailed graphics of some kind of steampunk design machines. It smelled like marijuana, sweat, smoke, and piss.

Sherlock made his way into the room where his dealer had said he'd be.

"Going back to old habits?" an amused voice asked, making Sherlock stop dead in his tracks. It was Mycroft's.

The older Holmes came out of the adjacent room, swinging his beloved umbrella in one hand, and holding his phone in the other. "Don't think I don't know what you've been up to."

"This is none of your concern."

"_Au contrair." _Mycroft said, motioning for Sherlock to sit down on one of the dirty beanbags, but Sherlock didn't move. "You will always be my concern. That is why I had paid all these drug dealers a nice amount of money to never sell to you again. I'd say I have paid visit to other… _places of business,_ but I'm sure you figured it out by now."

"How did you know?" Sherlock asked, voice cold as icy.

"The good doctor gave me a call." Mycroft smiled, as though bragging about an achievement worthy of a Nobel price.

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. _Why can't John just keep to his own damn problems?_

"He cares about you a great deal. Odd, wouldn't you say? Especially when you have in mind he has his own difficulties to deal with. But he always puts you first."

"Friends do that."

"_Friends_ don't. Putting one person before everything is not _friendship_. But me and you Sherlock don't work like that, do we? We're both selfish, in our ways."

"Don't try and compare us."

"Oh, would you point out the differences for me then? I care about you enough to pay all these lowlifes not to sell you cocaine, but I don't care how you're going to deal with it. You care only until it intervenes with your own little plans."

"I don't care about you." He gritted though his teeth.

"Oh, I know. I wasn't talking about myself."

The phone is Sherlock's pocket vibrated.

_Wine from Tesco. 2011. Tonight? –JW_

"Is that him, now?" Mycroft asked, leaning against his umbrella, with a smirk on his face.

"Will you tell him I was here?" Sherlock asked, feeling the ground underneath his fleet slip away.

"There's no need for that, at least not until next time."

And then in Mycroft's eyes Sherlock saw exactly what his older brother was thinking. _I know what's going on._

* * *

When Sherlock came back home, he found the flat empty. He was feeling an awful craving for a dose, but John had flushed his last resources into the toilet, and Mycroft had ensured he didn't get some tonight. Sherlock knew he will manage to find someone to sell him eventually, but it would take time, because Mycroft clearly knew what he was doing. Sherlock imagined strangling his older brother as he composed a text for John.

_I'm home. –SH_

There was no response.

He sat in his chair and opened up his laptop to occupy himself with something that wasn't thinking of drugs, John, or Mycroft. He started updating his website with the data he had gathered with the toe experiment, although none of the three things left his mind no matter how he wanted them to.

Finally, he figured he would at least try to find cigarettes that John might have hid in the flat. He left no stone unturned – but found nothing.

It was getting late. John still hadn't returned.

Sherlock made his way upstairs into the empty room of the doctor. The door was ajar and he stepped inside, knowing all too well how John would feel about this is he saw it.

It was tidy, as always. John had very few things – only that which was essential. Sherlock noticed a detective novel lying on John's bed, and snorted in disapproval. Surely, the cases they went on were much more interesting than that. _Why does he read this rubbish?_

He could make out the place where John was laying in the bed before he got out – the convers were pushed aside and the pillow had a dimple where John's head was. Sherlock ran this against the surface. Crumbs.

John had eaten biscuits in bed. Only reason to do that was because he was avoiding Sherlock, and didn't want to eat downstairs.

He picked up the pillow a shook the crumbs off. Then, without giving it much thought, he placed it against his face and inhaled deeply. The smell made his entire body grow weak in an unfamiliar, hypnotising way. It smelled just like when John had embraced him, only stronger – Sherlock sat on the bed and closed his eyes, recalling the moment.

Cocaine had no chance of comparing to that.

His phone ringed – it was Lestrade. Sherlock answered hopefully, thinking he had another case, but the DI was calling for an entirely different reason.

"Sherlock, I'm calling about John. He's been taken to the hospital."

There was a sudden thud in his chest. His vision grew dark around the edges, as though black liquid had been spilled inside his head. It was ringing in his ears. One part of the mind raced with every possible injury he could think of – calculating the damage and odds of survival. The other part went dead completely, as though shut off with a power switch. Broken bone. Head injury. Shot. Stabbed. Ran over by a car. Infectious disease. Burns. Broken ribs. Dislocated joints. Everything came in graphical illustrations and he sifted through the list.

"He's mostly okay, just suffered a lot of blood loss. _And_ he caught the attacker. Managed to knock him out, even with that damn cut on his arm. He says he knew him – Malcolm Lawson? We've arrested him. We're in Bart's."

"I'm coming."

Sherlock couldn't have remembered anything from his taxi ride, even if England depended on it. He remembered sitting on John's bed with the pillow in his hands, and the next thing he saw was the tall white building of St. Bartholomew's hospital.

He made his way until he had reached John's ward, and looked though the half open door, his heart trying desperately to break his ribs.

Inside John's ward, it was more crowded than in King's Cross. Sherlock saw Eric, Lestrade and Stamford, all gathered around the bed in which his flatmate laid in, all discussing something amusing – he heard John's faint chuckle, but could barely see him over the backs of the other men.

He could finally take a breath that didn't feel like a drowning man's gasping. John's voice, John's laugh. _John._

Mary sat on the chair besides John's bed. They were holding hands.

Sherlock stepped away from the door and retreated back into the corridor. John was alive, and well. The tightness around Sherlock's heart weakened and he could finally think again, without the thoughts turning into pictures of John's broken body parts.

He battled an urge to step inside the room and wrap himself around that man – until everything he saw, smelled and felt was John. The doctor had enough company. Surely, Sherlock was the last thing on his mind right now.

"Sherlock Holmes?" asked a woman's voice and he turned to look.

She was a short woman, blond, colourfully dressed, with an expensive golden chain on her neck, eyes of a very familiar, very dear shade of greyish blue. She had a faint smell of cigarette smoke around her.

"Harry Watson."

"Ah, you _are_ good just like my brother says. Aren't you going in?"

"I don't think John needs any more people bothering him." He replied, walking towards the exit.

"Would you like a cigarette, then?"

_Ah._

They stepped outside where the arch of the entrance provided a shelter from the rain and Harriet gave him a cigarette and a lighter; he lit it in haste and inhaled it deeply, feeling pleased with the strength of the tobacco.

"He got stabbed in the arm, but apart from blood loss I think he's fine. Physically anyway. Cops have the attacker now."

"So I've heard." Sherlock replied, wondering of the consequences if he just walked away from her now.

"You know, this is not how I imagined you."

"If your source of information is John, I am not surprised."

"You act like you don't care, but you do. Just now I saw your face as you peeked into John's room."

Sherlock looked at her expression, but it was friendly.

"And I see you still have an alcohol problem." He retorted.

"Getting defensive?" Harried laughed, exhaling the smoke. "Just like John is, always so eager to deny everything. You two make a nice couple."

Sherlock's lack of response made her laugh again, although it wasn't loud; she seemed to be equally parts amused and intrigued.

"Do you get that a lot? I bet you do." She put the cigarette in the trash bin. "I'll head inside now. I'd tell you to join me but I can tell you won't." She made a pause. "I never liked Mary either."

And with that, she was gone. Sherlock hailed a cab and sunk into another re-organisation of John's room in his mind.

* * *

It was strange how empty the flat felt at night without John sleeping upstairs. It seemed rather illogical, but it was almost as if John's presence made a difference to the entire equilibrium of their home.

_This is how it's going to be when John leaves,_ he thought, feeling a stranger in his own sitting room. He noted every object in the room that was John's, and imagined the place without them.

John didn't have many things. Most of the piled junk was Sherlock's, and he had originally thought that would have been a problem with a new flatmate. But John didn't seem to care anymore, and it felt at times like everything they had belonged to both equally. Sherlock, despite his lack of knowledge in human relationships, knew that most adults wouldn't feel comfortable with sharing as much as he and John had.

When they had first moved in together, Sherlock thought it would take him some time getting used to having someone around all the time – but John had made his way into his life almost unnoticeably. What started with shared rent grew into a shared life – they both trusted each other before they could pinpoint why.

The man that Sherlock Holmes was now did not exist without John Watson.

He thought about the people that he saw in John's ward – his friends, the people that cared about him enough to drop everything they were doing and come see him. Did they need him, as Sherlock did, so much that the thought of him leaving was unbearable? And in return, how did John feel about them? Sherlock knew that John cared about a lot of people – he was a doctor, both as a profession and a lifestyle. But he only had one heart.

His phone vibrated.

_You were in the hospital? –JW_

Sherlock smiled, as though the initials JW had been the most beautiful thing in the whole of creation. Without John looking, he felt there was no need to conceal what he felt.

_Yes. –SH_

_Why didn't you come see me? –JW_

_You were busy. –SH_

_You're an idiot. –JW_

_Are you alright? –SH_

_I think so. Will you come tomorrow? –JW_

_Do you want me to? –SH_

_Yes. –JW_

_We'll have to drink that wine some other time. –JW_

_But I wasn't joking; I did get it at Tesco. –JW_

_What are you doing? –JW_

_Sherlock? –JW_

_Was taking a shower. –SH_

_Going to bed now. –SH_

_The mattress on this hospital bed is rubbish. –JW_

_Will you be released tomorrow? –SH_

_I bloody hope so. I'm in the same ward with a snoring guy, and a bloke who talks in his sleep. –JW_

_I wish you'd had come in when you were there. –JW_

_I don't think there was room. –SH_

_You could have gotten into bed with me. –JW_

_Sorry, that was a joke. –JW_

_People would talk. –SH_

_People do little else. –JW_

_Are you in bed? –JW_

_Yes. –SH_

_Should I wish you goodnight then? –JW_

_Are you going to sleep? –SH_

_I think the sedative is kicking in. –JW_

_Goodnight, John. –SH_

_If they don't release me tomorrow, you will have to kidnap me. –JW_

_That can be arranged. –SH_

_Please. –JW_

_Anything for you. –SH_

John did not reply. Sherlock put the phone away and sunk his face into the pillow.

He was in John's bed.

* * *

**Author's note:** I've split the chapter into two parts. You'll hear more about what actually happened to John in the next.

Thank you all for the reviews!


	5. Loss of blood and other things II

**Chapter 5: Loss of blood and other things, Part 2**

_And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking  
Racing around to come up behind you again  
The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older  
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death_

* * *

There had always been bad blood between John Watson and Malcolm Lawson – but John doesn't say anything when his name comes up that time in Baker Street with Eric and Sherlock, because John doesn't speak ill of the dead.

He knew Malcolm since they were kids – he was the son of his parents' friends. Malcolm was one of those children that speak loudly, eat with their mouths open and bully other children into given them lunch money. Needless to say, John did not like Malcolm – but he never personally suffered from his malice until they were much older.

The first time they really argue is when they're teenagers. John is wittier, Malcolm hates it – but he knows better than to begin a fight with the son of his father's best friend. The first time they fight with fists, they are grown men.

"I bet you're a fag, just like that little sister of yours. I'm surprised your father knows which hole-"

He doesn't finish that sentence. John's fist uppercuts his face and shortly after they're in a fight that gathers a group of other soldiers around them. They are all surprised to see John fight like that, but the stress is too much and Malcolm's words were the last straw – John hits him as hard as he can, and so does Malcolm. When someone finally breaks them apart, John takes a good look at Malcolm's bleeding face, sure that is it not the last time this happens.

When Malcolm "died", John felt guilty because of his lack of grief for the man – he knew his parents, who were nice people, but the personal sores don't go away easily. Malcolm's body was never found – if he would have seen the dead body perhaps it would have evoked more emotion, but then John just felt… Nothing.

When he sees Malcolm alive again, there are no words to describe how _that_ feels like.

He's changed now, older, tattooed, scarred. When John wakes up from whatever Malcolm injected in him, the doctor realises this is no longer going to be a fight with fists.

Malcolm's going to kill him.

Everything happens quickly – the gun, the knife, Malcolm's head banging against the wall over and over again, until blood's coming out of his skull. John recalls only partially now how he managed to disarm him – it was a question of particle of a second. If Malcolm had been his own self, John wouldn't have been so lucky – but he's deranged, emotional. His knife cuts John deep and cuts the veins on his hand. John manages to knock the weapon out of his hand, and grabbing Malcolm by the hair, hits his head against the hard surface until he collapses unconscious.

The rest – the call to Lestrade, the ambulance – he can't remember most of it. Just the warm drip of blood all over, and the spreading darkness at the edges of his vision. Voices.

He feels that he is on some soft surface, but it smells different than his bed. The sound of voices becomes louder, he can even make out some of the words – but then it retracts, and he slips into something like a half-dream, both lucid and not.

He's in Afghanistan again. He's sitting on a bunk bed, alone in some kind of building. There's a window right in front of him and he looks through it. It's snowing. But it's as hot as ever.

He looks down and sees that there's blood all over his uniform. His own blood – from the place he was shot in. Odd, he thinks, it doesn't hurt. It just continues on bleeding.

It's dripping on the floor now – so much blood, but John somehow doesn't care. He feels like he's waiting for something, but doesn't know what.

The door opens. There was not a door before but there is now – and Sherlock walks into the room, in an army uniform. John notices that the blood is all gone. It's raining outside, and suddenly it's night time.

"I need a doctor." Sherlock says, closing the door behind him. Time skips, and they're sitting on John's bed, and he's looking at something – something bad; Sherlock's veins, pierced a million times; John runs his finger's across the damaged skin.

"Sherlock…" he whispers in terror. Suddenly he feels like he hasn't got a body anymore. He sees Sherlock sit on the bed, but now he's alone – and John's vision zooms out as though he's only watching a film.

Then he sees _himself, _come out of a previously non-existent adjacent room, his current self – with hair that began to grey and wearing a soft jumper, his body softer and pale. He watches himself take a seat on the bunk bed and waits until the reflection of him looks at Sherlock's arms with the same terror that he did before, but it doesn't happen.

The John in the vision grabs hold of Sherlock's collar and kisses him. John watches in shock as they wrap arms around each other as though they had done it a million times, and sees the other John's fingers disappear into Sherlock's unruly hair, pulling him close.

The vision shifts once more. John has a body again. He's standing in some unknown house, and all that he knows is that he's angry.

There's an empty carton of milk in his hand. He realises it the source of the anger.

"You never buy milk." He hears himself say.

"Shut up, I can't think with you going on about milk. Who cares about that." Sherlock says from the chair where he's sitting in.

When John turns to look, he sees an old man sitting in Sherlock's place, wrinkled and grey-haired, with faded blue eyes and an annoyed expression, holding a book in his arthritis damaged hands. It takes John a moment to realise the man _is_ Sherlock.

He looks down at his own hands. They're old man's hands.

* * *

"Oh look, he's with us again. Don't be dramatic John, you only nearly bled to death." He hears Lestrade's voice and finally manages to sit up a little – the pain in his right immediately reminding what had happened.

He's overwhelmed by the number of faces looking at him - Mary, Eric, Lestrade and even Stamford. It takes him a moment to register that Harry's there too, but she's sitting further, away from the _crowd_.

John secretly wishes they would go away or at least keep distance.

He feels his hand being taken by Mary's.

"How are you John? Say something." She says, almost in fear.

"I think- ah, my head's all wobbly. But I think- I think I'm fine." He adds quickly, before anyone freaks out. He looks at Lestrade: "Thank you."

The DI nods, and manages a small smile.

"God, I feel like after one hell of a pub visit…" he makes a bad joke, but everyone laughs in relief. He looks around. "Is Sherlock here?"

"I called him, he said he'd come." Greg shrugs.

"I'm going out for a smoke." Is the first thing Harry says. John cannot help but to smile at that – she knows how much John hates being the centre of the pity of others.

The doctor comes by later, and shoos everyone away from John to take a look at him. 'I don't need a doctor, I _am_ a doctor, damnit!', John wants to quote Star Trek, but manages to not say it.

"Alright, everyone, John needs rest now, you can visit him later."

"I could stay overnight." Mary offers. John just smiles at her. After he broke her heart, she's still so caring – he feels the guilt creeping up again.

"No, it's okay. I've had worse you know."

They finally leave, but when John sighs in relief, Harry comes back, smelling of tobacco.

_Damn._

"Oh don't look at me like that." She rolls her eyes. "I'm not going to bother you, just wanted to say – Sherlock – he was here."

"What?"

"Tall bloke? Impossible cheekbones? With a coat? Has a stick up his ass? That was him, right?"

Yeah, that was Sherlock alright. John nods, feeling his heart sink. He tries not to think about the dream for now – he just wished Sherlock had taken the two minutes to see how he was doing.

"He's a nice catch."

"Harry…"

"You should have seen his face when he saw that you're okay! And you say he doesn't have feelings."

"If he cared so much, he would have visited me."

"Oh don't be daft, you sat there holding hands with Mary. For the record, even while I'm a lesbian I have to admit, he has a better b-"

"Harry! Would you st- anyway, what does Mary have to do with anything?"

"Ugh John, how do you ever get laid if you can't tell when someone's utterly- No, just. Not my place to say. Oh, one thing though – is he, like, trying to quit smoking, 'cause I gave him a cigarette?"

"You what?"

"Bye! Get well!" she ran off.

John didn't regret pulling the heads of her dolls when they were kids anymore. The nerve of her!

* * *

When everyone left and the other two men in the ward had fallen asleep, John continued trying to avoid going into the details of the dream. He had weird dreams before, right? Who can forget the dirty episodes with the Biology teacher he had as a teenager? She was so old!

Of course, Harry's remarks only made the situation worse. Her implying that Sherlock was somehow _jealous _of Mary… Yes, John could see Sherlock wanting John to go chasing some wild goose in London streets (one time, literally) instead of going on a date with her, but for Sherlock to want hold hands and other things of _that nature_ (he tried not to go into detail on that one), that was the most ridiculous-

Okay, he thinks over in his head. That hug. What was that, then, if not an indication that-

But that's different, he reasons. That's totally different.

Why is he even thinking about this?

That's when the dream comes in. It's blurry now, or perhaps it always was – dreams always seem real when you're dreaming – but he knows well what he saw, and that was Sherlock being quite fold of John's-

No. No.

_It's a fucking dream._

He frowns.

_Fuck you, Harry._

Then he picks up his phone, and sends a message to Sherlock.

* * *

The next day, he got woken up by the voices of the relatives of the guy that talks in his sleep (about food recipes, apparently). He sat up in the bed and realised he had fallen asleep with the phone in his hand. Just as he's staring at it, the phone begins to ring.

It was his mother.

Obviously, Harry had told her what happened – he could barely say a word while she kept on talking about how she was so worried and how John should be more careful. He tries to tell her _I'm fine_. She goes for on for about five more minutes – John zones out for a bit. Finally, she stops the monologue.

"Harriet said you've broken up with Mary? John, she was such a nice girl…"

"Look, mother, it just happened, okay?"

He doesn't want to say _Mary deserves someone better than me_, because that would probably give his mother a heart attack.

"Are you still living with Sherlock?"

"Yes-"

"John, you know your father and I support in whatever you do, I mean when Harriet married Clara-"

"Mother, no-"

"I'm just saying there's no need to lie if-"

"I'm not gay, alright?"

When they finally stopped talking, John felt tired again. His mother could talk to ears off anyone. He looked at his phone, they've talked for 30 minutes. Mothers…

Only then John noticed an unread message from last night – must have gotten it after he fell asleep.

_Anything for you. –SH_

He reads it again, and again. John knew that Sherlock did not work like the rest of humanity, but still, it was an immensely affectionate thing to write. Does he know that?

John put the phone away as the nurse brought him breakfast. She was cute, he tried to flirt with her (if only to distract himself), she reacted as though he was delirious.

* * *

When Sherlock woke up in John's bed that morning, he knew that he had a problem.

First of all, even he knew that sleeping in someone else's bed was considered an invasion of private space, but it wasn't the consequences that worried him (because John will _never_ find out), it was the reason _why_ he did it.

It wasn't a logical thing to do – and if he doesn't have his logic, what else is there?

The room was quite cool in the morning – it was almost winter, after all. The cold light fell on the white sheets, embracing every wrinkle of the cover under which he laid – on his back, looking up at the ceiling that had been damaged by the rain way before they moved in. He could picture John looking at the very same yellow and grey spots, lying exactly as Sherlock was now, only on a different time. John, is his pyjamas and jumpers, and weird, hand-made socks, or that God awful stripped dressing gown. Angry, happy, annoyed, tired, aroused, bored, sad.

What would John say if he walked into the room right now and saw Sherlock in his bed?

He could picture easily the angry look on John's face while he would exclaim _Sherlock!_ like he had done so many times, and then would try to drag him out of the bed downstairs where he would give a lecture on _respecting personal space. _

He got out of the bed before the train of thought took him any further, took care of any evidence he might have left, and went downstairs into his own room and dressed up for the day.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon that Sherlock walked into John's ward, threw a pile of clothes on John's bed and said:

"We're leaving."

John blinked rapidly, surprised by the assertiveness in Sherlock's voice.

"Excuse me?" said Mary, whom Sherlock had ignored completely (John knew that there was no way Sherlock hadn't noticed her).

"Oh, sorry, _I and John_ are leaving."

"John needs medical care; you can't just take him away!" She said, standing up. John watched the situation unfold before his eyes, slightly hoping it was another sedative-induced dream.

"I can and I will." Sherlock retorted in a voice that was both impudent and determined.

John was pretty sure he went mad and this was a hallucination.

"John, you can't possibly go with him." Mary said, as though Sherlock had made a bad joke, looking into John's eyes in hope to share a mutual agreement that the detective was being ridiculous.

When he glanced at Sherlock, he too was looking at John, waiting for what he was going to say, like all three of them were in some kind of final stage of _The Bachelor _and he was about to make the final decision.

Yes, John has definitely lost his mind.


	6. The tub, the porn, and the triple murder

**Author's note:** time to justify the M rating, I suppose *grins*. Reviews for this chapter are _especially_ welcome, as I really need to hear your opinion.

**Chapter 6: The tub, the porn and the triple murder**

* * *

John cleared his throat.

"Yes, well."

He looked down at the pile of clothes Sherlock brought for him, noting they were exactly the thing he would wear in this weather. _Observant bastard_, he thinks sympathetically.

"Will you give me some privacy?" he asked, closing the curtain so he can change. He could almost _hear_ Sherlock grinning.

Sherlock and Mary both went outside into the hallway having no desire to invade the space of other patients in John's ward, and Mary spoke immediately after the door was closed:

"You know he's not healthy enough to go home."

"It's his decision." Sherlock said, although he knew Mary is right in a way – it took him a heartbeat to see how pale John was.

"It's always you who comes first, isn't it." She said bitterly. "It is always you, for him. You don't deserve someone like John." Her eyes were full of sadness and anger, but her voice remained low. "And yet it is you whom he'll follow anywhere."

* * *

"Oh, would you wipe off that smug smile off your face?"

"No."

Of course not. John can't help but to grin at Sherlock, as they both sit on the backseat of the cab, on its way to Baker Street.

They sit in silence for the rest of the journey. John thinks about how easily he ran away from the hospital – he knew he would the minute he saw that face. There is no doubt when it comes to Sherlock. No second thoughts. He feels slightly light-headed, his arm hurts still, but what does it matter, now that he's going home. He wants to smile at his flatmate, but Sherlock is turned to the window, now completely serious and deep in thought. John texts Mary, ensuring he'll be fine.

Sherlock looks at the blurry buildings they pass on their way to their flat, thinking over what Mary said. Does he really not deserve John? John is not even _his_.

_Well_, he glances at his flatmate, _maybe a little._

_It is always you, for him_, she said. _If only._ He'd like that. To have John just for himself. _**Yes.**_

When they arrive at their apartment, there is a big object in the middle of the room that immediately catches John's attention.

"You… You bought a bathtub?" he asks, looking at the big white ceramic object, filled with some liquid. It's definitely not water.

"Yes, Lestrade called this morning. Three people dead, all in their bathtubs. They seem to have drowned, but their corpses were found dry, no signs of break in. I'm testing various liquids now."

"You came to pick me up in the middle of a case?"

"Obviously. Don't touch it, and don't talk to me, I have work to do."

John blinks rapidly, as Sherlock moves over to the chair near the tub and continues going through his notes. He ignores John for the rest of the day, but the doctor is used to that – it's what happened before that surprises him most.

He remembers Harry's words. _He cares._

* * *

It took them eight days to finally solve the murder – although John's input was minimal due to his condition. Sherlock didn't show any specific worry about it, but he would not tell John when he was going somewhere. He was back to his normal self, and John felt happy when he saw him like this – immersed in the mystery of the case. They haven't spoken much, but often, when he had to wait for lab results or a call from Lestrade, Sherlock would look at John in a way that made the doctor uneasy. Like Sherlock was examining _him_.

It was one day after the case was solved that John came downstairs in the afternoon, looking for his laptop. He had expected Sherlock to fall into his bored state, that, best-case-scenario would result in bullet holes in the wall, and worst-case, well, John didn't want to think about _that_, but it seemed as though Sherlock was not done yet. Everything about him screamed _the game in on_, but John knew he had no case.

John needed to talk to his flatmate. About so many things that have been happening recently – but he did not want to risk that during Sherlock's maniacal engrossment. He thought he would wait until he's less busy, but now it seemed that he had found something outside of a case that interested him immensely. The doctor had no idea of what it could be.

When he opened up his laptop that was in hibernate, there were some browser tabs already open. Thirty-two of them.

And they were all, every one of them, porn.

"Sherlock, why is there porn on my computer?"

"What do you mean? There's always pornography on your computer."

John sighed, pressed his lips tightly together, looked away, then back at Sherlock. He had that look on his face as though he was dealing with a child.

"Okay, but not this." He motioned to the paused video with a close up of some guy's large member being treated as an ice lolly by a busty female dressed in maid's uniform. "This" he said "is what you've been watching."

"Obviously" Sherlock replied, still typing away at his computer.

"Why can't you use your own computer for wanking?" he asked, outraged.

"I'm not masturbating, I'm doing research. And I don't want viruses on my computer."

"_Research?!_ Research into what exactly?"

"Oral sex."

John's jaw dropped. "What?"

"I don't know how I can be any clearer." Sherlock replied, annoyed.

"Is this… for a case?" John asked, warily, his imagination running wild with ideas on cases relating to oral sex, and trying to imagine what mystery Sherlock needed to solve.

"No." he replied without emotion.

John considered the response.

"I thought these things don't interest you personally." He said carefully, realising that they've never really discussed this before, and that it was probably for the best, but the curiosity was too much.

"Sex is a huge factor in many of the crimes I investigate." Sherlock explained, although that was not what John was asking.

"But you said this is not for a case…"

"If you're asking about the videos specifically, then yes, they do interest me, as like I said, I am doing research."

_Great, we're going in circles_, John thought.

"Yes, but what _for_?"

Sherlock's fingers stopped hitting the keyboard and he looked at John with the most serious face.

"Same reason why anyone would research something – to know more on the subject."

"You want to know more about oral sex?" John said slowly, wondering why Sherlock would _possibly_ want that.

"Yes, exactly, John."

"And of course empiric method isn't an option?"

"Why do you ask?" Sherlock asked, raising a brow curiously. John blushed.

"I just- if you need accurate data- porn isn't exactly a place to gather it."

"I'm not interested in the social aspect of the situation, just the act itself. Technique."

"Tech-"John cleared this throat. _What. _"I see. Are you planning on having oral sex with someone then?" he tried to sound as casual as he could, but this was one sentence he never thought he'd say to his flatmate.

"Yes." Sherlock replied, as though John had asked if he wanted milk in his tea.

"Oh." He said dryly. "Man or woman?"

"Is that not evident from the videos? Learn to observe John."

"Oh. You like men then." Well that was one mystery solved.

"Hm, no, not in particular." Sherlock replied.

"What?"

"No, I don't like men. I don't like women, either. Almost every one of them is dull, small minded, and they either bore or annoy me."

"So, just the one guy?"

"It would seem so." Sherlock put his laptop on the table, and stapled his hands together, looking at John, as though considering something.

"Oh. I see." John said, wanting to ask a million questions, but unwilling to voice any of any of them. Sherlock stood up and walked towards the couch where John was sitting, stopping right in front of him.

He was wearing a black suit, as per usual, a tight violet shirt underneath – the buttons on it seemed to be barely holding the strain when Sherlock moved, slowly, as though pacing in a crime scene, trying to capture every detail. His eyes, however, did not look around, but instead, kept focused on John, who shifted uncomfortably as his flatmate approached, with some kind of determination visible in his features, and with a very smooth movement, slid out of his jacket and placed it on the couch beside John. The way he was standing, there were barely a few centimetres between his leg and John's. The doctor attempted to stand up, as the height difference was making him uncomfortable, but Sherlock placed his hand on John's shoulder and made him sit down again, look of utter confusion in his eyes.

Then Sherlock knelt down, his eyes looking directly into John's, with something similar to when he would implement an important experiment: determined and concentrated. His black hair framed the pale face perfectly, which was so close that John would see the tiny dot of brown in his right eye, among the mix of green and blue, watching him attentively.

"What…"

Sherlock's hands slid up John's tights slowly upwards and inwards, his thumbs tracing across the inner seams of John's jeans, slowly, as though testing. The doctor backed away on the couch, but Sherlock's hands eagerly followed, and he leaned in closer between John's spread legs.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked, breathless, as the detective's fingers reached behind, pulling him forward.

"Seeing whether my research was productive." He replied, pressing his fingers hard.

"But…"

"I know I'm inexperienced John, but I don't think my throat is particularly sensitive, so I think it should be at least-"

"Sherlock-"

"Satisfactory." He finished, his voice slightly husky, speaking in a same manner as other people would discuss the weather.

Sherlock's pushed his full lips together, his eyes looking into John's from below, hands sliding between John's tights; the doctor pressed them hard together, capturing Sherlock's fingers and gasped as Sherlock spread them wide again, his hands on either of John's legs, his lips dangerously close to John's belt buckle.

The doctor could barely breathe. His flatmate, his _best friend_, was kneeling between his legs, the handsome, often cold, but always brilliant face looking up at him from the most submissive position John could have imagined; and John _knew_ that it was not something that should have _ever_ happened between them, and that world had somehow turned upside down since the last time he slept. He's seen Sherlock shoot guns, carry out experiments of the most morbid kind; he's seen him sit naked with just a sheet in Buckingham Palace or high on cocaine on their couch, but never has John seen him like _this_, for which John had no words to describe. Never did he even think Sherlock had a side like this to him at all.

His skin felt on fire at the places where Sherlock held him.

"Sherlock-"John repeated, placing his hands on Sherlock's and trying to peel them away, but the detective was persistent.

"John." He said "I'm going to take you deep into my throat, as deep as I can."

"You can close your eyes and think of anything you want." He looked down and brushed his lips against the thick fabric of John's jeans right where the zipper was. "_Anyone_ you want." He looked up at John again, parting his lips, licking them slowly and audibly.

"Wha…" John felt his pants becoming too tight around his crotch, blood rushing into his cock and out of his head, rendering him speechless.

John knew that it would have been the sensible thing to do to stop it then and there, because whatever was going to happen (and he knew damn well what that was), neither of them were ready for it. He didn't know for certain, but he could only imply that Sherlock had only his _research_ as source of knowledge of what he was determined to do, and it was not the quality John worried about, but the motive. And if he never cared for it before, why John, and why now?

John couldn't believe that out of all the people in the world, who would have done anything to be in this position, it was _him._ The thought was intoxicating. The great detective that everyone admired, but no one could have, the cold and emotionless man, who scoffed at every bit of affection someone else showed. It was those hands – the wonderful, dexterous instruments that served to solve the insolvable, that played the music which that made one's heart bleed on the violin strings – the very same long, warm fingers were now on his thighs, not bothering for a second to ask for permission to be there. It was the world's most brilliant man on knees before him.

It was his _best friend_.

Sherlock's long fingers pressed against John's erection, and rubbed it gently, without a moment of hesitance.

"Ah, Sherlock-"John whispered in pleasure and guilt "Sherlock wait-"

"What for?"

"We can't-"

"Do you mind if I swallow?" he asked, undoing John's belt.

"Oh God" John replied, his throbbing member growing so hard it was painful. "Please." He took Sherlock's hands into his with every piece of self-control he had left and stopped him from undoing his pants. "I can't- Have you ever-"

"No." Sherlock replied, pulling John's hand towards his mouth and brushing John's index finger against his lips. John stopped moving immediately. Sherlock squeezed the doctor's hand and pushed his fingertip inside his wet mouth. His tongue slid out of and pulled it in deeper inside, sucking. John's toes curled and he moaned silently, his other hand clenching Sherlock's palm painfully.

"So why… why…"

_He's never done it before. He shouldn't do it like this._ John thought, somewhere in the part of his mind that still managed to function.

Sherlock let go of his finger, trace of saliva hanging between it and Sherlock's lips.

"Close your eyes now. I'll take you in my mouth."

His hand finally unzipped the trousers and reached into John's underwear, grabbing his cock firmly and pulling it out; Sherlock stroked its full length starting teasingly at the shaft and going harder as he reached the tip.

_Sherlock Holmes is holding my cock_, John thought as the waves of guilty pleasure surged though him. It was so wrong, so wrong to be doing this with Sherlock, jeopardising their friendship that was so important for both, and knowing Sherlock was asexual on top of that. Why is he doing this, and how must he feel, seeing John so helplessly horny and desperate for touch? But it was _so good_. So good that John just couldn't tell him to stop.

"You're quite larger than I had expected." Sherlock said, and seeing as John has finally closed his eyes, ran his warm tongue against the soft skin.

"Mhm!" John moaned suddenly, grasping the couch beneath him. Sherlock repeated it, only this time applying more pressure, and John made another involuntary sound, only this time it sounded like begging.

"Put your hand in my hair." Sherlock instructed. John grabbed his curls forcefully, tugging him forwards and Sherlock opened his mouth letting John push his cock into his mouth. He nearly gagged at John's length ramming against the back of his throat but readjusted his position until the doctor's cock was fully inside, hard as bone.

John. It was John inside of him, and nothing could have prepared Sherlock for what that did to him – to both his body and mind. He was prepared to please John for the sake of having him stay – for the sake of being as much as he can, even if that wouldn't be enough. For making John _his_. Sex was not something he was ever willing to do, but with John… With John – _for him_, he could. If it meant keeping him beside, even for a day longer. But now, _now_, with John's moans and touch, just for him, because of him, it was no longer the case of being willing or taking any means to reach a result. He wanted this. He wanted John.

"Fuck" John moaned, as Sherlock pulled away and released him almost completely and then took him deep again, agonisingly slowly.

"Mhm" Sherlock heard himself hum as he licked the tip before sucking hard again. John trembled at the vibration and his hold in Sherlock's hair tightened.

The detective looked up to look and John's face and their eyes met; John was looking down at him in a way no one had ever looked before; with such desire and lust and pleasure and _need_; and Sherlock moaned around John's cock uncontrollably like he didn't think he was capable of, feeling every bit of his own body tense in desire.

"Yes" John moaned, not breaking eye contact. The look on his face was pleasure mixed with disbelief in what was happening; he licked his lips and stroked Sherlock's hair.

The younger man sucked harder and faster, seeing every bit of change of his actions reflect on John's face and trying to determine how to best please him, while he desperately wanted to touch himself, the sight and feel of John being the most arousing thing he had ever witnessed. But he didn't – it was about John only, and he only had one chance to do it right – and if he does then maybe John will let him do it again. Yes, many times again. He rolled his tongue around the tip and tasted the warm pre-cum, John's hand pulled him forward again, he obeyed.

"Nhh…" John's let out another shaky moan. "Oh God."

_Oh God that mouth. _There was not a thought in his mind about stopping now. Sherlock pulled away, gasping for air, his saliva spread all over John's cock. He stroked it slowly, then traced his tongue along John's testicles before sucking them gently, teasingly.

"Sherlock" John said, looking at his friend's handsome face between his legs, those clever, so often cold eyes now filled with thirst; those soft, wide lips hungrily tasting him and the long, wet tongue shamelessly rubbing him everywhere, as though having a mind on its own. "Oh… I… Mhm, please, Sherlock"

Sherlock's mouth had engulfed him again, and his palms pressed firmly on John's tights as he positioned his head right above John's throbbing member, taking him in with quick, hungry thrusts.

"Yes. " John arched his back, his hands releasing hold on Sherlock and letting him take complete control. "Fuck. Mhmmm!"

Sherlock did not stop to breathe until John ejaculated– the hot cum filling his mouth as the doctor cried out in pleasure, and then let John's cock slide out, to wipe of any remains with his tongue. Sherlock closed his eyes as he licked off every bit of the liquid and swallowed audibly, looking at John's face, realising John had never stopped looking. _He watched. He came looking at me. _The thought was almost enough for Sherlock to come in his pants. He stood up, knowing very well that his erection was very evident through the fabric of his pants, but there was no time to think, he had to leave right now.

"Oh Sherlock" John whispered, panting. "Oh God, that- was-"he looked at Sherlock's crotch and he forgot whatever compliment he was about give. The expression on his flatmate face was utter torment.

"Goodnight, John." He said, and before John reacted, fled quickly into his room.

Once inside, Sherlock leaned against the door and slid down, his hand trying to desperately reach into his pants – the arousal was blinding. He could still taste John as he finally managed to pull his cock out and stroked it violently. John filling his mouth. John's face. John's fingers pulling his hair in desire. John looking at him, begging pleading.

He came almost immediately, John's name on his lips. Every part of his body trembled in ecstasy, warm liquid spreading in his palm, and then he relaxed, straightening his legs across the floor and throwing his head back, until he was looking straight at the ceiling.

John was right, reality was nothing like the fiction.

* * *

The doctor sat on the couch where Sherlock had left him, staring at the door behind which he had disappeared.

His mind was blank.


	7. Away

**Chapter 7:****Away**

_I hurt myself today  
To see if I still feel  
I focus on the pain  
The only thing that's real  
The needle tears a hole  
The old familiar sting  
Try to kill it all away  
But I remember everything_

* * *

As he lay on the cold floor, watching the streaks of lights cross the wall from the cars driving along the street, only one thing went through his mind.

_I wish I had never met him._

He was never meant to be like this. He was given a brilliant brain, in exchange of having no heart and _that_ was what it should have been. Alone was what he had.

But it was no longer what he wanted.

It has been two weeks, three days and five hours since he had last seen John. And he counted, he counted because he thought that the longer it would be, the easier it would get.

But he was wrong.

He had to go to Moscow on a case – and John had to stay in London because he had his job to think of (it was easy to forget that John had something other than their cases, even when it was something as big and being a surgeon). When Sherlock had his work to think of, it was good. But now, the case was over, and he still hadn't come back home. He was stuck behind a rock and a hard place – both seeing and avoiding John were equal parts difficult. He wanted not to think of it that way, but the thought still sneaked into his head – even if he hadn't left London, he would still be alone because_ John_ would have left. He saw it, in his eyes, that day before Sherlock received that call from Mycroft about the stolen heirloom and received the plane tickets.

Ticket**s**. Of course, he didn't even offer John to come with him – if he's lucky, John will still be living in Baker Street when he comes back. But he wasn't so sure.

Not after their last conversation.

On the bright side, Mycroft didn't own the Russian government, and neither did he have any control over certain products being sold – and Sherlock made use of that.

He could still find out about it, tell John, but it didn't matter. Sherlock needed to stop this, stop depending on John, stop caring about what John thought or which jumper was his favourite or…

The last injection made him feel nauseous, but he wasn't bothered by it – he hadn't eaten for four days.

* * *

_**Two weeks and four days ago**_

* * *

The next morning after the _encounter_ (as John had labelled it), it had become increasingly harder for John to go downstairs as minutes passed after he woke up.

_Harder_. _What a fucking relevant word_.

Last night he went to sleep, still feeling a pleasant lack of thoughts in his head, but the morning proved to be not as kind as the night. As soon as he opened his eyes from the dreamless sleep, he almost immediately went into panic.

First of all, morning had nothing to do with the tent pinched in his covers – the vivid memories of yesterday surfaced before any moral thoughts did. Oh God, that was the _best_ he's ever had. He'd never let that mouth go unoccupied if he could. So warm, wet and eager to take all of him in. Mmm. The bulge under the covers grew bigger.

And then, reality hit him. It was _Sherlock_. It was Sherlock's mouth on him, and the reason why he won't be able to go out in public without poking people with his very persistent erection was _Sherlock_. His best friend. Who is married to his work and is cares as much about sex as a sea animal cares about the fact that it's going to rain in the afternoon.

_But that's not what his trousers said yesterday_, John thinks to himself, wondering where the inner sass was coming from. Okay, so he had been wrong about one thing. Sherlock was definitely not asexual, or at least, not in the sense that John thought he was.

What would he have done if Sherlock hadn't left? Would he have… _returned the favour_? What does Sherlock look like when-

His phone vibrated.

_Meet me in the __mortuary__ –SH_

John let out a deep sigh. If he gets a hard on in the morgue, there will be far worse things than being gay people will suspect him of.

"Mycroft?" John was surprised to see the brother of his flatmate stand in the corridor of the morgue, the ever-present umbrella in his hand, staring at the door as though waiting.

"Oh, hello, doctor." He replied, with his usual fake, polite smile.

"Why are you here?"

"As always, I worry for my little brother."

"What happened?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"No he just texted me to come here… is he alright?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock said, coming out of the autopsy room.

It was the first time they've met after the encounter. And Mycroft was watching. John glanced at Sherlock nervously, but the man had something else on his mind.

"Well, I didn't think they'd call me if the murderer was already caught." He said, irritated. "You've wasted my time, Mycroft. Don't you have cake to return to?" He then turned to John, eyes cold as ice. The doctor shuddered. "I won't be needing as assistant after all." And then he just walked away.

"What?" John blinked, but his flatmate was already gone. "What?" he asked again, looking at Mycroft. "You called him in to see a dead body, but the murderer is caught?"

"Hm, yes, well, it's not exactly about a case. Sherlock knew him."

"He knew the deceased? Knew how?"

"They were friends. His name was Victor Trevor."

"Sherlock has friends?"

"Used to. In university. You see, doctor, that's why I'm here. Well, perhaps you should take a look yourself."

_Oh Jesus_, John thought, as soon as he stepped into the room, and saw the mutilated corpse on the autopsy table. He's seen violent things like these in the past of course, but it didn't take a second glance to know that whatever was done to the body was done on purpose, with a very steady, professional hand. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought that the body has been cut up during the post-mortem examination, however, it had been completely opened up _before_ that.

Only now John noticed Lestrade was also in the room, wearing his casual clothes, and the look on the DI's face was a perfect embodiment of what John felt like inside. Horrified. What kind of human being could do this to another living, breathing person? John felt disgusted just thinking about how low a man can go.

"It's so strange, there are no internal organs left" he heard Molly's voice. Lestrade made a noise.

"But the murderer is caught, you said? That was… fast" John evaluated, noting the freshness of the corpse. It was a man around Sherlock's age, but little of his facial features were clear anymore.

"Yeah, because he gave in. Not exactly caught." Greg said, through gritted teeth.

"What? I mean, could we speak outside?"

Lestrade looked like John had just saved his life.

When they stepped out of the room, Mycroft was still there.

"Yeah, he told us all about the murder, and gave himself in. He probably won't serve jail time, and put into mental care clinic, but that is not clear yet."

"So this is a set up?" John asked.

"Most likely connected to your encounter too." Mycroft said. "We're looking into it."

"Connected how?"

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock…?"

"Someone was after you, then after Victor. Indirectly of course, but there's still no doubt about it."

"They were… friends?" John asked, unbelieving.

"Yes, in university. They grew apart after one particular case that Sherlock solved, but they were in good terms." Mycroft lowered his voice "He was Sherlock's _only_ friend. Just as you are now."

"His onl…" John looked towards the doors at the end of the hallway, behind which Sherlock had disappeared. He seemed to be doing that a lot.

"It doesn't seem like he cares a lot." Lestrade noted, bitterly.

"He's Sherlock. No one knows what he's really thinking." Mycroft said, sharing a look with Lestrade that immediately told John this wasn't their first conversation.

"I'm going home." John said.

"Doctor…" Mycroft began, but then he changed his mind "John. Leave Sherlock alone for a while."

John didn't reply. He looked at the DI and the older Holmes both, knowing that both men had known Sherlock before him – but still convinced that he knew him _better_. Both Mycroft and Lestrade cared for Sherlock – but not in the same way John did. Neither of them had any idea of how human Sherlock was. Or so John thought, as he left the two men standing and ran to get a cab to Baker Street, hoping to find Sherlock there and talk to him.

When the doctor left, Lestrade looked at Mycroft again, this time without the pretend coolness.

"Is he clean?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I'm sending him to Moscow, on a case. It's nothing special, but he'll take it. For the freedom to _buy_ whatever he wants, and for a distraction. He won't take John with him."

"Why not?"

"I know my brother better than anyone else – perhaps with the exception of the doctor. I know he won't."

They kept silent for a minute.

"It's funny how everything revolves around that bastard." Lestrade sighed. "You really think it's a good idea to send him to Moscow? He'll start using again; you won't be able to stop him."

"We'll deal with it when he comes back." Mycroft said. "Thank you, detective. You've been most helpful. Your care for my brother has always been surprising."

"As much as I'd like to punch him in the face, London needs him. And please, just call me Greg."

"Very well."

"God, I need a drink. I mean I've seen some shit, but this…" he pointed to the door behind which Victor's body was and frowned. "I suppose you don't go to pubs, Mr Holmes?"

"Mycroft, please. "he said, smirking. "You are correct, I really don't." he made a pause there. "Which is why I'll let you pick one."

* * *

When John came back to Baker Street, he found Sherlock in his chair with the laptop – he did not say hello as John walked in, and headed straight towards him. In fact, he didn't look up.

"Victor was your friend."

"Long ago, yes."

"Sherlock, he's dead."

"Yes, thank you for your input John, but I hardly needed a doctor's professional opinion to notice that."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. Is that how Sherlock would have reacted if John had been killed? With nothing more than a _remark_.

"You said it _wasted your time_ – to see him?"

"Does my seeing him change anything, if the killer has already given himself in?"

"You know there's more behind this whole – when _I_ was attacked…"

"Yes, and if you hadn't your military training you'd be dead too, is that what you're saying, because I am well aware-"

There was very little John could have said right now that was not a direct insult. The coldness in Sherlock's voice was heart-breaking.

And to think that John thought for a moment that Sherlock had _feelings, _that he was hurt, and sad, and perhaps affectionate, but now, in the face of the biggest tragedy – death of someone close to him (and, John thought in horror, someone who was in my shoes some time ago), Sherlock did not care at all.

"It's because of you." John said. "Someone killed a man _because_ of you, and the first thing you do was to complain about Mycroft wasting your time? You machine. You-" he took a deep breath. "Do you want my expert opinion on the corpse then? It would have been merciful to kill him before cutting him open, but they didn't _take the trouble_. And the best words you can muster were _you've wasted my time!_"

"Don't you get tired of expecting me to care?" Sherlock asked, looking up at John in the most annoyed way.

"You know what?" John said, smiling sarcastically, eyes glistening with tears, but not enough so that they would fall. "Go fuck yourself."

* * *

_**Present day**_

* * *

That was the last thing John had said to him before he left for Moscow – the doctor was gone for the rest of the day and later on Mycroft called about the case.

It wasn't particularly interesting. It wasn't particularly important. Mycroft gave it to Sherlock as a kindness. Sherlock took it, because he had hoped that time away from John would have been good for him.

_You machine_. Oh, how he'd want that to be true.

Before he met John, Victor had been the closest thing he had to a friend. He was brilliant, and different than the other students Sherlock had the misfortune to interact with. They grew apart when Victor's father had died – Sherlock investigated the mysterious circumstances regarding the death.

When he saw his dead body on the autopsy table, he could immediately tell it was Victor, despite what was done to the body. He was not surprised when it hardly affected him on an emotional level. It was obvious that the death was connected to John's attack, that someone was indirectly threatening Sherlock – all the little facts regarding the occurrences were taking their places in his mind palace, neatly placed on the dissection table for further investigation. It was just that: facts, hypotheses, possible motives, suspects. It was not until he left the room and found John standing next to Mycroft when he really understood what he was supposed to be feeling.

He had spent all his free time trying to figure out who paid for John's assassination (when he was not busy being distracted by everything else regarding John), and even now, after Victor was killed, he had nothing. Whoever was doing this, Sherlock knew they were waiting for the right moment to announce the purpose of it.

Perhaps after a successful attempt to take John's life.

He asked Mycroft to dedicate men for the doctor's protection; to put up surveillance cameras in their flat, to follow him if he went somewhere. To keep him safe, while he would be gone. He was certain, however, that whoever was doing this, wanted him to be _there_. John was safer without him at any rate.

There was friendship. Friendship he had with Victor, sharing interests, having common goals, similar backgrounds, spending time together – as long as it was convenient and pleasant for both. When they stopped talking, it was not good or bad. It just was.

And then there was him and John. And it was entirely unlike that, and yet people still referred to them as friends. John had no equivalent in his life, no other person he could have compared him to. And when he thought John could have been in Victor's place, it was no longer just a fact.

It has been two weeks, three days and five hours. John. Was he still in Baker Street, or did Sherlock's indifference finally chased him away? Sherlock wished he could tell John that he sincerely grieved Victor, that being cold was his way of masking his feelings, but that would have been a terrible lie. He thought that it was sad that his old friend had to go that way, but it was just that – a thought.

He could still lie. John would believe him. Maybe even comfort him.

Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends. John Watson was not his _friend._ He was just John, just John who stood above all else despite having no common interests, values or goals, despite often being inconveniently painful to be around, and hitting him so close to home.

Sherlock loved John, with all the heart he did not have. And love was selfish.

Lying on the floor he battled his own thoughts that urged him to pick up the phone and tell John all the lies that would have made him happy. He could tell John about how it felt like to be rejected by everyone around him, how lonely he was and how he learned to mask that loneliness and eventually suffocate the feeling until all remained was the cool, collected exterior, and the calculating, impartial, brilliant mind. And perhaps it would not be completely false, but Sherlock had no care for whatever had happened before. Sure, it was difficult then, but what does it matter? Would the past change if he cried about it? Would John think him more human if he pretended to care?

What good would he be to John if he was broken? Was it not because of who he was that John stayed with him for these years?

_I wish I hadn't met him. Why must he always be the exception to every rule I had built my world with? John is just a man. An ordinary, small-minded man, who has the observational skills of a third-grader. _

_John is unimportant. _

_He's my flatmate. We share rent._

_He thinks I'm cold-blooded and cruel. He's right._

_He really hates me sometimes. But not always. _

_Sometimes he thinks I'm a good man. I'm not._

_He's a terrible judge of character. Always sees good in people, even when it's not there._

If there was no John, his life would be different. There would just be him, and his work. At the beginning of their relationship, John made his life better. But now? Now, John had made him vulnerable. Illogical. Completely distracted, and driven to tears by a diamond ring in a box, and a few harsh words? How absurd. How absurd that someone so insignificant-

What would he do, if John was killed? He thought about losing John to another person, having him move and spend his days with someone else, and it was almost unbearable, but if John died, died because of him, what would he do then? If he saw that body on the autopsy table, pale and lifeless, ribs open, eyelids closed, hands placed by his sides, never to wrap around him again…

_Forget him. He's simple, emotional and flawed. _He thought, desperately trying to grasp anything that would make John into someone he could dismiss.

_You lived without him for years, and not once had you ever felt this unhappy. _

His phone ringed. Sherlock's heart stopped beating as he saw the name in the screen. He could have convinced himself he didn't care for weeks, but there was no denying that he could barely think as he picked the phone up with a shaking hand, trying desperately to find the words that were escaping from him like sand falling though the gaps on one's fingers.

He hated John. He hated him more than he ever had the moment he felt what his name on the screen did to him. And he was ready to tell the doctor exactly that_. Our partnership agreement is no longer convenient to me._ _Goodbye, John._

"Hello?" he picked up. There was silence for a moment.

"Hey. I was just…" John's voice. _John's voice. _So gentle, and friendly, but at the same time hesitant, unsure. "I uhm… I'm calling because of the tub?"

"The tub?" he whispered, afraid his voice might shake. He hadn't heard John for weeks. The few words made him shake all over.

"Yes, the one you bought for the triple murder case. Would it be okay if I got someone to install it in our bathroom?"

"Uh…" clearly, there was no reason to call about a bathtub – not in with these call rates. Even if it was urgent, John could have texted. "Do you not remember what I did with it?"

"Well, I still use the fridge in which you put the head in." and he laughed, but it didn't sound very cheerful.

"John, why are you actually calling?"

"Why do you think?"

"John."

"I wanted to- to hear your voice." There was a long pause, Sherlock said nothing. "How is the case?"

"It's fine."

"And you?"

"Fine."

There was a long silence, but neither of them hung up.

"Sherlock, I'm not in London."

So he _did_ move. To another city, even. Going so far just to run away from him. Was he calling to tell him about it? _You can return to Baker Street, because I'm gone. You should look for a new roommate._ Was he afraid to tell Sherlock? Did he think joking about the tub would make it easier? Has Sherlock's actions finally drove him to the point where he could no longer stay in the same apartment? Had Sherlock not done enough to make him stay, going to great lengths he would previously hold unthinkable? Had he done too much? Was John disgusted by, or afraid of what had happened between them? Had he done it wrong?

Or was it all about Sherlock's lack of empathy for others?

Sherlock felt a tear run down his cheek straight into his ear. He could not help that side of him; that would have been a lie too great.

"Where?" he demanded. He needed to know how far he had driven him. How far John would _run_ from him.

"Here." John replied.

"What?" he almost gasped.

"I'm here in Moscow."

"Why?"

"Because it's nice this time of year." John said.

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Have you been to the Red Square? It's beautiful in winter."

"Are you there right now?"

"Yes."

"John- Just…" Sherlock looked at his coat hanging by the door, standing up from the floor so suddenly, his vision grew dark for a second. "Just stay there for a bit."

"Okay." John replied. "But it's cold, so you better hurry up."

* * *

**Author's note:** Sorry for taking so long to write this. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please write a review, they encourage me to write more!


	8. Snow in Moscow

**Author's note:** A big thanks to potential-flatmate for bit of help. This turned into a long chapter, I hope you'll enjoy it.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Snow in Moscow**

The Red Square was large and full of people at that time of the evening, holding hands and kissing, smiling and gazing at the beautiful architectural masterpieces, resembling giants in the yellow light of the illuminators. It was winter, and the temperature was around -15 Celsius, causing everyone's breath to turn into clouds of steam as they talked and laughed, walking around with no particular destination in mind. As Sherlock passed the happy couples, families, and friends, no one seemed to notice him, or the terrified look on his face, eyes darting to one corner or the other, trying to find the short figure in the dark jacket somewhere among the crowds of locals and tourists.

Snow covered the rooftops of the buildings and the ground underneath Sherlock's feet as he walked in haste towards the centre of the square, careful not to slip on the ice-covered pavement.

The Vasily Blazhenny Cathedral stood in all its majesty, snowflakes glistening in the folds of the colourful onion domes like silver; the men who had built hit had been blinded so that they would never build anything as extraordinary as it ever again. Sherlock gazed upon it as he stopped for a while to look around, but could not see John anywhere. Cruelty of men had never surprised him; it was the kindness that he had overlooked numerous times.

He could not believe that John was here. A part of him wondered if it was some kind of joke, but it wasn't something John would do. No matter how angry he was with Sherlock.

If John said he was here, then he was. Somewhere, among the many people, was his John. Waiting, in the cold.

The square was impossibly great. As he walked around in search for his doctor, Sherlock thought about John's reason for being here. He hadn't missed another person before. It was as though having a ring which you wore everyday removed, and feeling odd and uncomfortable with the lack of its weight on your finger. The absence hurt.

Almost three weeks they haven't seen each other. So many things could have happened in that time – so many _horrible_ things. But he said he wanted to hear Sherlock's voice, and those words had made Sherlock illogically warm in the freezing cold.

Nothing had been resolved between them. How much had things changed since that time he first saw the man called John Watson, potential roommate and an ex-soldier, borrowed his phone and asked him whether it was Afghanistan or Iraq, how much he sometimes wanted to have never lived that day? He could have told so much about John just by looking at him, but could have never foreseen the scale of his own response to every one of those things. The only thing that struck him as odd in the very beginning was how simple it felt just to be together. John just accepted him, despite people telling him not to. Sherlock was a stranger to John back then just as the others were, but somehow, John chose him without even thinking. Why? It made no logical sense. Of course, John was often illogical, but he had to base his actions on something. Emotion, then.

The fact that John based his decisions on something so unpredictable frustrated Sherlock. If John was a man of the heart, and Sherlock was a man of the mind, how could they ever find common ground? Especially now, where so much uncertainty was involved?

What will he say to him when they face each other moments later under the black starless sky, so much silence and time between them? What lies would he be able to tell, and what truths will prove impossible to be spoken?

There was no way to tell how much it will hurt to look into those eyes of grey and blue, and to know that even though John is within arm's reach, his heart is light-years away.

His licked his chapped lips and put his coat collar up, heading towards the very centre of the square, involuntary thinking back to a half-remembered daydream of an English summer in the country where the sun coloured the grey hair on John's head with golden strokes as he sat on the front porch, reading a paper. It was warm there.

The cold wind ripped the thought away from him, making him stop for a moment. It was getting late – he could see the restaurants and pubs filling with people as they fled the cold of the night, leaving the square emptier and emptier by each passing moment.

And then he saw him. Standing almost exactly in the middle, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his obviously too thin jacket, nose red as an apple, his face somehow resembling a hedgehog; he was looking somewhere else; his eyebrows furrowed, looking even shorter than usual due to the cold he was obviously not enjoying. He looked so small among the colossal statues and the crowds of people, somehow lost and out of place.

Sherlock's heart clenched. He stopped walking, unable to take another step.

It was snowing lightly, the snowflakes glistened in the streetlights and after being caressed by the wind, landed gently on the pointy tops of the buildings, the ground, cars, people, homeless dogs, trees and John, standing alone and waiting. Few managed to land in his light hair, and now melted slowly in his warmth, turning into tiny drops of water.

He glanced at his phone, checking the time and Sherlock saw him type a text. His phone vibrated in a few seconds.

_It's snowing again. Would you hurry? –JW_

His hand felt almost numb as he quickly replied.

_I see you. –SH_

John looked around nervously, until his eyes finally found Sherlock's silhouette somewhere among the other people, still too far away to see his face, but close enough to know it was really him.

_I see you, too. -JW _

He replied, without taking a step closer. He could see Sherlock reach into his pocket and read the text, then look back at him. It was impossible to tell what expression he had on his face but the reply came soon afterwards:

_John d_

He hit send without meaning to. His finger slipped and he sent it unfinished. He couldn't help it. It was that moment when John's eyes found him in the crowd, that very heartbeat that had echoed painfully in his chest that he realised:

He was in love with John.

The doctor looked at the text, then back at Sherlock, and they both started walking towards each other at the same time, faster and faster with each step.

Only when a few metres separated them, both stopped suddenly, as though forced to by an invisible wall.

"Hi. "John said almost sheepishly, his eyes glistening in the freezing cold. He was smiling – but the smile was half-hearted. He looked worried.

"I hit send too soon." Sherlock said, without thinking why that was even important.

"Yes, I figured that out." John replied, the tension between them almost unbearable to both. Both struggled with wanting to be closer, but neither took another step forward.

"It's fucking cold, huh?" John said, looking down to his feet because of Sherlock's intense gaze. He could not feel his toes.

He was angry with Sherlock, furious, in fact, but he was too happy to finally see that face again, even if the black bags underneath his eyes and the sharper than usual cheekbones gave out that not everything was entirely well. John knew that Sherlock would easily find cocaine in a city big as this – and he was not naïve nor optimistic enough to think he wouldn't do it.

The time he spent in obscurity felt heavy on John's shoulders. A man can think of so many possibilities while left alone with his thoughts for so long. And when he called – while the signal beeped three times, it felt like an eternity. He was so relieved to see the face of that brilliant mad man, for a moment forgetting all the things that would not let him sleep at night. It was Sherlock. His presence made him feel like coming back home.

He felt something soft land around his neck and looked up – Sherlock was right in front of him now, his hands wrapping the blue scarf around him with care. He tied it with such precision as if it was some kind of important nautical knot and then looked into John's eyes, saying:

"Only you wouldn't check the weather before flying almost three thousand kilometres away from home. Idiot."

John smiled sincerely now, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. Sherlock smiled back, showing his set of white teeth, and then wrapped his arms tightly around the man he loved, feeling his entire world dissolving into John's warmth. The doctor hugged him back immediately, placing his cheek on Sherlock's chest and closing his eyes.

It was – everything.

And yet nothing was resolved, no explanations given, no anger and frustration shared, no apologies made, and John knew things as heavy as that don't disappear because you wish them to. They're not snowflakes that melt in the heat, they're not rain that evaporates in the sunlight. They're bruises, cuts and wounds, and they bleed and hurt, and even after they're healed they leave scars that never go away.

"God, you are so thin." He said into Sherlock's coat.

"Dinner?" Sherlock offered, his breath landing into John's damp hair.

"Oh God yes. I tried a few places…" he pulled away a little "I've been here for three days. Every day I thought about calling you, but wouldn't. I'm even staying at your hotel, but they told me you weren't coming back to your room for the last few days." Then he pressed tightly to Sherlock again. "My rooms a twin room. Maybe you could stay with me."

"Alright." He replied, and John's embrace tightened. It was strange to see John wearing his scarf, but somehow very pleasant. He looked into the distance, spotting a few people who stared at the both of them like they had seen something outrageous. Sherlock knew exactly what they were thinking.

He grinned. He wanted that which the strangers had silently accused them of.

"People are staring." John stated.

"Я тебя заставлю стонать, мой сладкий." Sherlock said loudly. Everyone turned around to look at them.

"What?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled knowingly, but did not reply to John's question and instead said:

"So what about that dinner?"

"You speak Russian?" John asked, pulling away in surprise. "What did you say?"

"Oh, it's your own fault you don't take interest in foreign languages." The detective replied, grinning. It felt insufferably cold at the places where John had been touching him just a minute ago.

John sighed dramatically, in a humorous manner.

"Let's go, alright? I need to spoon feed you until you gain your weight back."

* * *

**Author's note:** _Я тебя заставлю стонать, мой сладкий_ is Russian for "I will make you moan, my sweetheart." (or something like that). The pronunciation is roughly "Ja tybja zastavlu stonat, moy sladkey". Please not that Sherlock mostly says it to annoy the people around them, and not to actually convey a message to John.

* * *

John ordered _pelemeni_ for the both of them as they finally sat down in some restaurant slightly away from the centre of the city. Sherlock noted that it was close enough to their hotel for them to walk back later.

John took off his jacket, but not Sherlock's scarf.

"What did you do while I was gone?" the detective asked.

"Well… I got the tub installed without your permission. I took baths. I went out for drinks with Greg multiple times, he's-"

"Having an affair with someone." Sherlock cut him off.

"Wh-"

"Someone from the government. I talked to him on the phone."

"You got that from one phone call? Amazing." John smiled. Obviously, Greg didn't _tell_ Sherlock all that. He deduced. "The government, really?"

"Yes, and someone powerful too. But not cocky – they got his salary raised but in such a way that he genuinely thinks he earned it. Interesting."

"And you?"

"Solved the case of the missing heirloom."

John wanted every detail of that case – and Sherlock gave it to him with pleasure. He loved to gloat and he loved how John was amazed as always, his excited remarks stroking his ego and warming his heart. Things were almost back to the way they were for a moment – until John's leg brushed against his under the table.

_Oh._

If had been one short touch Sherlock would have dismissed it as accidental. But now, John's leg didn't return to its original location, but stayed pressed to Sherlock's instead. Not tightly, but obviously intentionally, touching just enough to catch his attention. Nothing in John's face changed as he did it, but there was no way he did it absent-mindedly.

The table behind which they sat, facing each other, was tiny.

What exactly was the purpose of John's touch?

_If he wanted to make me completely unable to speak coherently, then it served it well. _Sherlock thought, although he was not sure if a gesture like that was meant to be sexual at all. Hugs were not sexual and they involved a lot more body contact than this, so perhaps it was just like placing your hand on someone's, like a gesture of affection or show of sympathy, or whatever other petty emotion humans needed to convey. It did, however, feel sexual to him.

"You didn't take the scarf of." Sherlock said.

"Do you want it back? I thought it adds me some IQ points." John joked, taking a bit bite of his food.

"No, keep it." Sherlock replied. "It doesn't work without the cheek bones, though." He felt John's leg nudge him under the table, as John laughed.

Sherlock had trouble eating. Cocaine really made him loose his appetite, and having not eaten for days, he felt sick to his stomach. He still took a few bites, if only to stop John from complaining, and looked out of the window where darkness of the night mixed with the white snow in a wonderful, windy chaos. He liked the winter – just not the tedious holidays he had to endure. Now that he lived with John, even the flat would be decorated with that Christmas nonsense. And the _guests. _Oh, how Sherlock despised having guests around. Sure, Mrs Hudson would visit their apartment often, but Lestrade and _Molly_? Why doesn't John invite Anderson while he's at it?

"I'm angry with you." John said, but the tone of his voice did not reflect it. "You should have gone to Moscow with me."

"You stated very clearly that I should go and fuck myself, I didn't think you'd go."

"You only wanted me far away so you could do whatever the fuck you want." John shook his head.

"Is that why you're here then? To forbid me to do what I want?"

"Mostly, yes. You're going cold turkey, and I don't _care_ what you have to say about it."

"John, do you honestly think you can t-"

"Yes." John cut him off, smile disappearing completely. It was a bluff, of course. What could he _really_ do? It was not as if John had a talent for blackmailing.

It would have been foolish for Sherlock to state the obvious fact that John had no means of controlling him, especially right now, when he was clearly showing some _kind _(although Sherlock was really out of his depth here) of _friendliness_ under the table.

He decided not to address the issue for now.

"Fine." He said.

* * *

"You pushed the beds together?" John asked, coming out of the bathroom, trying to dry his hair with the rough hotel towel, wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into.

"Yes. The gap proved to be quite large but I took one of the covers and stuffed it inside, so now it should be okay." Sherlock explained.

"Uh… Sherlock…" John started not sure how he was going to finish the sentence. "I just… I just saw you again after three weeks of not knowing whether your alive or not and- This is- Not that-"

"We'll sleep together." Sherlock nodded.

Oh. He really means just sleeping.

"Sherlock, adults don't do that."

"Neither do they wear Doctor Who t-shirts to bed." Sherlock retorted, literally falling into his side and pulling up the cover until only his face above the nose was visible. "You need to invest in some better pyjamas, John." He continued, voice muffled by the cover.

"Oh sod it." John muttered, getting into the joined bed, wondering how on Earth he was supposed to sleep with Sherlock breathing into his neck.

He had taken one of the longest showers in his life – constantly worrying that Sherlock will suspect him of wanking, but unable to step out of the cabin and face the reality that seemed to gotten a habit not to make sense. He was still very worried, very mad at and frustrated with Sherlock, what was he doing sleeping in the same room with the man?

Not to mention now it was even the same _bed._

He was afraid to see Sherlock's arms, but when the detective came out of the bathroom, John noticed that his satin sleeping clothes left very little skin uncovered.

_Of course, the bastard has a thousand-dollar fucking suit to sleep in_, he thought to himself, mentally defending his t-shirt and shorts combo (because that's what normal men wore, right?). The room was warm enough, but John would never go shirtless after he got shot, not even when he was sleeping alone.

As John discussed proper sleeping wear with himself, Sherlock laid on his back, frozen in the same position, with the covers dragged up so high, only his unruly hair, eyebrows and blue eyes were visible. He was looking at the ceiling, deep in thought about something.

"Should I turn off the lights?" John asked, his hand hovering over the switch next to his night table.

Sherlock didn't seem to have heard him, and John decided not to ask him again. In a second, the room was completely swallowed by darkness.

It was silent. It's strange how much more silent it seems when the lights are off, how much more intimate. He could hear Sherlock breathe quietly next to him on the left side, not once changing positions. John wondered if that's how Sherlock always slept – like a very big doll placed in a bed, still and noiseless. John himself knew he twisted and turned in his sleep. Sometimes he would have nightmares about the war and wake up with tears in his eyes – he hoped this won't be one of _those_ nights.

"Sherlock?" he said, regretting it immediately. Talking in bed seemed was something reserved for him and… the women he dated. John might have had sex with men, but they would never stay to chat. In fact, John had very little care for those encounters in the army. They meant nothing, really. He was horny and he didn't mind doing it with a man. _Take it where you can get it_. But that was really long ago.

Of course, not once did the results of Sherlock's _research_ left his mind. The first week after Sherlock was gone, he didn't seem to pull his hand out of his pants. It felt a little like being fourteen again, everything reminded him of sex. It took significant amount of effort not to think about the fact that it was Sherlock who did it, because if he did, guilt and confusion would fill his thoughts.

"Yes?" he replied, turning to look at John, but he could barely see in the dark.

"If I invade your side, just push me back into mine, okay? I'm a heavy sleeper, it won't bother me."

There was a pause before Sherlock replied.

"Okay."

Sherlock had never slept with someone in the same bed - if you don't count the bunks in the boarding school for boys he went to as a child. He could hear John's every move as he tried to get into a comfortable position, trying to imagine that which the darkness hid from him. If the pulled away the curtains, the street lights would give him a better view, but perhaps John was more comfortable with not seeing him. Sherlock made his best attempt not to show any signs that he was actually there.

He also wouldn't be able to sleep for the life of him.

He decided to organise some of the facts about the past cases while he lied perfectly still in the bed next to John – he decided what to delete and what to save for the future, storing the valuable data in the high shelves in the heart of his mind palace.

He had just finished the case about the heirloom when something very peculiar happened.

It was about 2 am now – John had fallen asleep around midnight, and by Sherlock's calculations, was now in REM sleep. He kept on moving throughout the whole two hours, sometimes rolling closer to the edge of the bed, and sometimes closer to Sherlock, but now he had managed to wiggle completely over to Sherlock's side, their faces separated by only a few centimetres of space.

Sherlock turned to his side, facing away from John. He did not want to roll John over to his side, in fear of waking him, especially after he had such trouble falling asleep. It did feel awkward to stay in that position so he moved close to his edge of the bed, giving John the space in the middle. Shortly, however, John followed him, and without any warning, wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist.

The first impulse Sherlock got was to run. Maybe he could climb out of the bed and lie down again in the now vacant side where John was supposed to be, and John could stay here, without being woken or aware of what he did.

It was odd. He didn't move. It was _so odd_.

John's hand caressed his abdomen and he murmured something in his sleep. Sherlock knew that the doctor was used to sleeping with other people, but he hadn't anticipated such actions from him.

"John." He said, in half-hushed voice.

"Mhm." John said, still asleep.

"John." He repeated, louder. The doctor pulled him into an embrace from behind and nuzzled his neck, still not waking. John's hand was flat against Sherlock's belly, as though holding him in place, his chest tightly pressed to his back.

There was no place left for Sherlock to retreat. John had captured him. For a moment the detective had no plan of action. Although John had previously moved all over, he was perfectly still now, wrapped around Sherlock. His breath was hot against his neck.

Was John thinking he was with Mary, or some other woman? Sherlock was pretty sure this was completely out of the "friends" area. Of course, John didn't know he was currently spooning his flatmate. Should Sherlock wake him up?

_Yes_, Sherlock thought_, I should_. But then none of his limbs agreed to the idea. He could feel John's chest rise and fall as he took deep breaths, feel his heart beat and nose graze the skin on Sherlock's neck. John's leg pressed against Sherlock's as he readjusted, his cold toes touching Sherlock's feet.

The younger man pulled away, sat up, and reached for John's cover to put over John who had completely forgotten it whilst invading Sherlock's side. He could barely see anything, but soon afterwards John was pleasantly wrapped in the blanket like in a cocoon, especially tightly around his frozen feet. Sherlock then lay on the bed again, careful not to fall overboard with the almost non-existent space John had left him. He turned to look at John's face to see if he hadn't woken, but John wasn't lying about being a heavy sleeper. Constrained by the blanket, he didn't reach for Sherlock again. The detective slid under his own cover, facing John now, the space proving too small to keep distance. He slid down and pressed his face to John's chest, slipping into a vivid dream whilst listening to John's steady heartbeat.

* * *

**Author's note:** I decided to add the rest of the Moscow episode to the next chapter, as this is lengthy already. Your reviews make my day.


	9. The left valet

**Chapter 9: The left valet**

* * *

"You've gotten into trouble again." Mycroft says, sitting beside him on the small leather couch, dressed in an adult's suit that makes him look older than the last time Sherlock saw him.

"_I_ didn't get into anything. They are all idiots, Mycroft." Sherlock explains.

"Most people are, but you can't say things like that, Sherlock. Look, you've got blood on your shirt. What will mummy say?"

"Why shouldn't I tell them? They all hate me anyway." He replies, looking at his older brother stand up and walk towards the window that gives a view to the school's courtyard. Mycroft is fifteen, but he already acts like a fully grown man and Sherlock admires him – his older brother, the pride of their family, brilliant, mature, responsible.

"Don't tell mother." Sherlock adds, looking at his feet now.

"Only if you promise to behave. Look, I've already hidden so many things from her; I'm tired of doing that. You're eight years old now, you need to understand when to hold back. Yes, maybe the other kids aren't as bright as you are-"

"They're stupid."

"Yes, maybe they're stupid, but don't forget that you'll have to live among people your whole life. If you can't like them, then you will at least have to tolerate them."

"Why?" Sherlock demands.

"Because even a pirate has a crew." Mycroft rolls his eyes at the word 'pirate', but Sherlock flashes a smile.

"Yes, but pirates are cool." Sherlock says and then his expression grows sad again. "I hate other people, even mother."

"Sherlock, don't talk like that!"

"Why not? It's true. And she doesn't like me either, nor does father. It is you they like."

"Only because I'm very good at what you're very bad at – not showing who I am." Mycroft turns to look at Sherlock and away from the window; his face is hidden in the shadow. "Do you understand? Lying is essential if you want someone to like you." his voice is very bitter. "You could be friends with all the boys easily if you knew which lies to tell."

"I don't want friends."

"I know." he sighs. "I know, Sherlock." he walks back to the couch and pats his little brother's head. "I still wish you had one. If only to protect you from the bullies when I'm not around."

"Why would someone do that? They would only get in trouble in my place." Sherlock says, sincerely surprised.

"Do you remember when you found the neighbour's dead dog?" Mycroft asks. "When they found out you took it because you wanted to see what's inside?"

"You told them you did it." Sherlock remembered the dissection aftermath. "You got punished instead of me."

"Yes."

"But you are my brother."

"A good friend is like a brother, and sometimes more. You see, you can't choose your family, but you can always pick your friends. So if someone stands up for you, even when they don't need to, that is true friendship."

"Do you have a friend like that?" Sherlock asks, surprised at Mycroft's words. He always thought his brother same as him – alone.

"I have one." his brother says. "but he's not someone I can ever bring home."

"Why not?"

"Because" Mycroft said, his voice filled with some kind of regret Sherlock did not understand "that would be showing who I am, and I cannot afford it."

The walls around them started to recede and the memory mixed with the fogginess of the dream, various unrelated sounds and smells mixing into the scene; Sherlock realised he was dreaming almost at the same time that he began to awoke, stirred by some kind of stimuli from outside of the dream, becoming conscious slowly, his body gaining weight and form. This memory, this dialogue – shaped by his subconscious and filtered by the dream's uncertainty, still was almost exactly as the real one he had years ago. Perhaps the spoken words were different, but the meaning remained, and he carried it out of the dream into his conscious state, slowly opening his eyes to the morning light.

The first thing he felt was something moving in his hair, realising this exact feeling was what pulled him out of the dream in the first place. But what was it?

Sherlock's head shot upwards, and his confused eyes quickly scanned the view that consisted mostly of John and he pulled away out of instinct, almost falling out of the bed. Two arms caught him before he could and pulled him back.

"Good morning." John said, holding him from falling overboard.

"John?"

"Yes, very good detective, now move away from the edge on the bed." John said as he pulled Sherlock back to a safe zone and retreated back to his own side. "You see this is exactly why we should have slept separately, I nearly pushed you out. Why did I even agree to this? I think I'm just too tired to argue with you the whole fucking time."

He's talking a lot. Embarrassed. Sherlock ran his fingers through own hair. There was no doubt about it, John's hand had been in them just a minute ago. That was what woke him. John's caress. Just a touch to wake him, or something more? Something that made him embarrassed?

"If we have to spend another night here, we're sleeping separately, I don't care what you say. Frankly, I'd rather you not mention this to me ever again." John continued to speak.

When John woke up, he realised there was a strange source of heat next to him. Pressed against his chest was a head of unruly, dark curls, and John could feel the warm breathing though the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock was asleep, and he was cuddling John.

A horrific expression shaped John's face. So, he was pressed tightly against his best friend in _bed_, and the said sociopath best friend was snuggling him in the softest, fondest way that went straight to his heart. And while John knew that his response should have been something else, he could not help but to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He was still sleeping, lying straight in the bed, but with his whole body away from the headboard, feet dangling above the ground, there being not enough space for Sherlock's long legs in this position. Sherlock had snuggled John like a child snuggled his beloved teddy bear.

The illusion was quickly shattered, however, as the detective woke up and nearly fell out of the bed. Lying on his side now, John thought that he perhaps should not have caught him the way he did – straight into an embrace, but he would have fallen on his arse if John hadn't. It was silly to treat anything that happened with Sherlock as he would the things that happened with anyone else anyway. Clearly, normal social rules did not apply to Sherlock.

"Did you sleep well?" John asked, trying to sound casual. He did sleep in his arms, after all. Was that not a reason to be worried, since things like these weren't Sherlock's cup of tea?

"Did Mycroft buy you the ticket to Moscow?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, he paid for the hotel too. Quite nice of him, wouldn't you say?"

"I slept well." he said and after a pause added "I slept leaning against you. Is that why you want to separate the beds?"

"No I- did you like that? Sleeping like that?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock…" John sighed.

_We need to talk. About everything that happened, about the sex we had, about our hugs and the way you look at me, and about your drug problem, and about our feelings, especially about our feelings _is what he needed to say. But when he looked at Sherlock, he just couldn't. When he looked at the man next to him, silent regret in his eyes about what he had just said, but too proud to correct himself, John knew it was not the time for that. He wondered, if there will ever be.

"Sherlock." he said again, lifting the corner of the cover he was under. "Come here."

The detective's eyes grew big in surprise, none of the previous anguish was nowhere to be seen. It took him seconds – which seemed to last for ages – until he slowly advanced towards John and slid underneath the same cover, careful not to touch him anywhere. Their faces aligned, he still could not lose the wary, unbelieving expression, but it had become less evident, buried underneath his cool mask.

John reached out, and stroked the back of Sherlock's head.

"We'll talk about this when we're back home, okay?"

Sherlock just blinked. What was happening?

He was in John's arms before he found an answer to that question. He was in John's arms, and they we both awake, and John was holding him, holding him close, just like the way they had slept in, only now it was completely different as they both were aware of what was happening.

"You've got such cold toes." Sherlock said and John laughed, his chest moving against Sherlock's cheek. It was a nervous laugh, but a sincere one nonetheless.

Sherlock placed his arm around John. He did not seem to mind.

It was – good.

"I'm starving. Do you know what I had a dream about? Caviar. So much caviar. I don't even think I _like_ caviar. Red, black. In plates just hills of caviar. And-"John went on, but Sherlock didn't really listen anymore. What will John want to talk to him about when they're back in Baker Street? He didn't want to talk.

John wasn't sure what he was saying about fish eggs, but when Sherlock's hands slid down his thighs, he dropped the topic and never returned to it again.

"Sherlock, no." he said, strictly. "Not until we talk."

He groaned and nuzzled John's chest.

"There are better things I can do with my mouth." he said, which proved to be a mistake on his part, as John pulled away and climbed out of bed almost a second later.

"I'm going to eat breakfast."

He had an erection. Sherlock thought it was stupid not to let him take care of that, but John had already disappeared into the bathroom to get ready.

* * *

There was a small café across the street that John had spotted the day before. He thought it would be a nice distraction until he realised half-way that he had left his valet back in their shared twin-room (which was now, thanks to Sherlock, a double one). He cursed loudly.

He needed a break from Sherlock. He hadn't seen him for so long and missed him terribly, but just after one day all he needed was some fresh air and time alone. Sherlock has always been too much, but now, he was impossible.

John felt horribly manipulated, more than ever. He had so many things to say to Sherlock, many of which were bitter, so many heartaches he needed to expose. He needed to tell that sex and love went hand-in-hand for him, and that he cannot be the object of Sherlock's experimentation. That he could not indulge in his games, for it would be the end of them. And yet, he didn't. He instead chose to give Sherlock the physical contact he now seemed to like (although, did it matter to him with whom he got it?), cuddling him in the bed like they were lovers.

But they were not. Was John the object of his interest because it was convenient? It seemed a too absurd of a concept for John to think that the great Sherlock Holmes would choose him for any other reason. He was almost afraid to confront him about it – for John too enjoyed having that unreachable man in his arms, with a fool's hope in his head that there was affection in it.

And yet, he left his valet in the room and had to return anyway. Perhaps now was the time to talk. It felt awfully masochistic to put it off further.

* * *

What John saw upon entering the bedroom had rendered him speechless.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, his pants down to his ankles, his naked pale legs almost white in the morning light. With his right hand, he was touching his erect cock slowly, barely applying pressure with his fingertips as though teasing. His other hand lay on the bed, clenching the sheet; his shirt was fully buttoned, his hair combed and neat. He had gotten ready for the day before John left, and now, left alone, he was touching himself, his big, throbbing member sliding between his fingers, wet with pre-cum.

As John took his time to gape at the massive erection, Sherlock raised his brows curiously, not once stopping stroking his cock.

"Do you _mind?_" He asked, as John stood dead in his tracks, with an expression Sherlock could only describe as utter shock and undeniable arousal.

Sherlock did not masturbate very often, and when he did, it would be over quickly – it was just something he had to do, much the same as eating and sleeping. Tedious, but necessary. He didn't know what he used to think about before – probably half of the thoughts would still be about work. But now, only one thing was on his mind. John's body, warm against his in bed, John's hands, John's tights, John's mouth.

He had heard John walk back to the room, obviously having forgotten something. He had time to stop, pull up his pants and excuse himself to finish in the bathroom, but he didn't.

John opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Sherlock had zero shame as he carried on, stroking himself a bit harder. The look on his face was almost the usual, except the pink tint to his cheeks and the slightly unfocused gaze.

Blood rushed to John's lower body. _Oh, oh God._

Had Sherlock not been so indifferent (from John's point of view anyway) he would have fled the room immediately. But now, as Sherlock continued pleasing himself with curious glint in his eyes and he watched John stare at him, the doctor could barely think about the circumstances of the situation. Sherlock's cock was large and thick and very very hard and wet and John just licked his lips and managed to say something among the lines of "I should leave", but no body-language indicated that he was in fact going to do so.

"Do you want to watch?" Sherlock asked teasingly, seeing as John couldn't look away anyhow. This was a surprise, even to him.

John blushed deeply, tingling sensation in his pants getting more intense and pressure rising. _Yes_, he wanted to watch.

_Oh my God_, he almost said out loud, wondering how on _Earth_ Sherlock's slim, angled body could have possibly been this arousing, more erotic than he could have ever thought it would; his own cock had no other choice but to rise up in excitement and John was very furious with himself for feeling this way, but alas, the anger was not enough for him to peel his eyes away from the dirty, obscene sight in front of him.

_He has such a handsome cock_, was the input of his mind for which he begged to give him strength to leave the room. Leave right now, John. _Look at how he teases himself_, traitor mind continued. _What does Sherlock Holmes look like when he orgasms?_

He sat down on a chair that was facing the bed as though ready to observe a play on stage.

_Fucking shit, I couldn't leave this room if my leaving would cure cancer and bring world peace._

Sherlock's eyes followed him attentively.

Oh, this was fascinating. John did enjoy watching Sherlock work, after all, the detective thought, pleased by the unplanned way things unfolded.

Sherlock spread his legs for better view. John squirmed in his seat. It was all trial and error from now on, as Sherlock knew visual stimuli could not be researched as easily as physical, as it varied too much from person to person. In fact, no one had watched him do this before, and he regretted not having looked into it beforehand. He could have done it better, then. Now he wasn't so sure. He had no idea after all that John would find him arousing.

"I should go" John said, but didn't move. Sherlock could tell that he was trying to fight his body's reaction and do the decent thing and leave, so he had to give him a reason to stay.

"Mmm" he moaned, biting his lip and lifting up one of his feet to the edge of the bed, so that John had a bit more to look at. And John looked, barely blinked in fact.

The doctor's mouth was slightly open, his pupils dilated; he had swollen up between the legs, which he tried to mask by crossing them, but Sherlock could still see. His gaze was full of guilt but defenceless, and he reacted to Sherlock's moan by licking his lips and glancing with embarrassment at Sherlock's face, only to meet the detective's piercing gaze.

Sherlock rubbed the tip of his cock and let out another groan, this time loudly – John's face turned red immediately and he shifted in his seat, looking away for a second and uncrossing his legs to expose the bulge that was pointless to hide now.

Sherlock put his middle finger in his mouth and sucked on it a few times, then changed his position on the bed so that both is his legs were spread wide apart; he reached for his entrance and rubbed it in circular motion, observing John's reaction as he watched with anticipation.

_Oh. OH. He's going to do that._

"Mmmhm John." Sherlock groaned. As soon as he spoke John's name, the doctor's facial features shaped in torment.

There went John's conscience, straight out of the window. _That bastard_, John thought, realising that it was some weird game Sherlock was playing, and that he really, really couldn't help but to play along.

"Ah." Sherlock panted, applying pressure. As he pushed his finger inside, John's eyes widened and his hand slid to his crotch involuntarily. Sherlock trusted a few times before pushing his finger all the way in, making sure John could see him do so. John was stroking himself though the fabric of his jeans now, embarrassed to no end, but too aroused to be able to stop.

"What… do you think John... Should I use _more?_" He said, teasingly pressing another finger to himself, but not yet taking it inside.

John swallowed audibly.

_Don't answer. Just don't. _John begged himself to stay silent. But oh, how weak his will power was when all the blood has gone from his head. He wanted to see Sherlock do that, _yes_, do that to himself _right now_, stretch himself wider, penetrate deeper.

"Yes" he whispered, as though saying it silently was less embarrassing. "Yes, do it." He repeated, almost commanding.

As John saw both of Sherlock's fingers disappear inside of him, a silent _mm_ escaped his lips. How tight must he be. How tight, and soft and slippery. He wanted to stand up, walk over to him, and upon pushing him down to the bed, fuck him senseless.

"Deeper." John said, and Sherlock happily obliged. He trusted his fingers inwards, rubbing them against his prostate. "Oh!" he moaned, not holding it back now that he saw what it did to John. "Mhm."John's eyes followed his every move.

"Another." John commanded, breathless. He seemed to like the control very much as Sherlock noted, wincing at the tension below as he pushed his third finger inside, something he would not usually do. It felt like too much at first, too wide, too soon. He remembered the size of John's cock and another moan escaped his lips as he made another thrust, both slightly painful and pleasing.

John's hand struggled as he began undoing his pants, no longer able to resist, the arousal driving him mad.

He did not think any more of what was going to happen after this. It was just here and now, and he was so horny, so hard, and the fabric of the pants has become unbearable.

Sherlock looked at him. A weak smile shaped his lips as he saw John pull out his cock and stroke it, the first caress making him close his eyes and let out a deep sigh of immeasurable relief and pleasure.

Then he opened his eyes and started to masturbate whilst looking at Sherlock, his hand moving very quickly, his grip around himself tight.

They were both looking at each other now, although John avoided eye contact; Sherlock trusted his fingers deeper inside while stroking his cock faster, observing the way John had synched his movements. Why must he be so ashamed of what they were doing? Was it because Sherlock was a man, or because of their relationship?

"Should I stop?" Sherlock asked, knowing full well what the answer's going to be.

"No. No don't-" John huffed. He watched as Sherlock's long fingers slid in and out of him, wet with Sherlock's own saliva and stroked himself harder.

"Mhm" Sherlock arched his back and curled his fingers, ramming them against the sensitive spot inside. "John" he said, and the doctor's eyes met his for a second.

John wanted Sherlock badly. He wanted to stuff his cock inside of him and fuck him so deeply that he would come all over the sheets and screaming his name. He wanted to pound him so hard, he could barely walk afterwards.

As he got closer to the edge, John could barely keep from going over to Sherlock and making him _his_. It felt like only the last remains of his conscience held him from taking Sherlock now, with force if he had to.

When he finally reached the point of no return, John could barely remember how he hesitated at the beginning. Even after he came, with waves of pleasure flooding his body, the need to have Sherlock never quite left his thoughts.

As John climaxed, Sherlock soon followed, with the thought that yes, John wanted him, and that he too wanted John. It felt very different to come while John was watching, sharing the same orgasmic sensation, never before having someone see him like this. Even after the pleasure shot through him, a piece of his mind still felt that something was amiss. He felt his body relaxing, and his heartbeat becoming steadier, but the desire for John's touch hadn't left him. He felt and overwhelming wish to be close to John again, his face pressed against his chest, make him laugh and warm his toes.

Even though Sherlock had a box of tissues handy, the aftermath of what happened could have not been more embarrassing to John. He knew that Sherlock was toying with him, treating his wish to talk as discuss their relationship like garbage. Doing things like these, fuelled not by mutual feelings but some kind of animalistic attraction was against John's nature. And yet he could not help it, because Sherlock had him around his finger now.

And now, merely talking would not have been enough to convey how hurt he was because of it.

* * *

**Author's note**: what will John do? Even I don't know at this point! Keep a lookout for the next chapter that should arrive shortly, and meanwhile, leave a review to let me know what you think.


	10. The jumper

**Chapter 10: The Jumper**

* * *

John Watson stood facing the mirror, drops of water running down his body, hair damp and feet freezing on the cold tiles of their bathroom. He was looking at the bullet scar on his left shoulder, although his thoughts were elsewhere, and when the mirror gathered fog again he did not even notice. He was naked now, fresh out of the shower he took after the long journey from Moscow back to London and a quick visit to the morgue. They had to return the very same day, for what it seemed to be only a few minutes of Sherlock calling everyone an idiot and pointing out the "obvious". He had been brilliant as always.

But this time, John held back the praise.

After what happened in the hotel, they spoke only of the necessary. Sherlock was, of course, immediately focused on the case and John helped him when he could. By the time they got back home it was already dark out, and John was exhausted to no end; he took the second shower that day and now, standing in front of the mirror, was mustering his courage to talk to Sherlock.

It did help that he masturbated just a minute ago. This way, the thoughts of Sherlock's body did not flood his mind like someone had opened a dam. What he thought about during pleasing himself did not make him proud of his self-control. As much as he tried to fantasise about breasts and other curves on the woman's body, the images would soon be replaced by Sherlock's sharp angles. His dark, soft curly hair, long fingers and deep voice, moaning _John, John, John. _His hard cock, and wet mouth-

_Okay, I'm fucked. _He angrily ripped the towel from the hanger and dried himself off, drowning in self-loathing. John knew few things.

One, he knew what he wanted. A wife, a family, a safe cosy place to return to after the madness in London streets, afternoon tea with a biscuit and _please God_, just a little bit of quiet now and then. Two, he knew what he _wanted_. And that was Sherlock, kneeling before him, mouth open; and then naked, on his bed, tied up, moaning, pleading, _screaming_.

Third, he wanted, for only a moment, to lose all the sexual tension and just… laugh with him. To see his arms heal, to hear him play the violin and shout at the television. For him to just be Sherlock, the Sherlock he knew for so long. But things had changed, and John was not sure how or why; and he was still Sherlock, but darker, sadder, fiercer.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Sherlock immediately took his place. John heard he water running as he sat on his chair and tried hard not to think about the visual on that. He turned on the telly.

Sherlock knew John was angry with him. He was not sure why.

His experience with John at the hotel earlier was very interesting. He thought of the way John had responded to his actions, and then came to the conclusion that he wouldn't be against exploring it further.

Sherlock was baffled by John's reaction to it all. Clearly, he had missed an important thing, but he had no idea what it was.

What else could he had given John, but his friendship, trust, physical pleasure, and numerous other exceptions that were so far from his nature, it had already been too much? There was nothing left. Sherlock simply was not enough.

Ah, John had masturbated in the shower. He might have thought he hid the traces, but Sherlock knew since he first moved in that he often pleasured himself here. It was of little relevance before, but now Sherlock could not help but to wonder whether he had made an appearance in John's mind during one of those "sessions".

After he got dressed, he found John in the sitting room, drinking tea and watching the television. He looked very tired.

"Why don't you go to sleep, John?"

"I need to talk to you." the doctor said, motioning for Sherlock to sit his chair. When he did, John continued. "I'm just… I'm so confused, I just-"he rubbed his face. "What are you doing to me? And why?"

"You're going to have to be more specific."

"I can't! Okay? Everything you do lately_, everything_, Sherlock. This morning-" John blushed, but his face was still angry. "You can't just use me for your research. I've got feelings, believe it or not."

"It was my first attempt, although I assumed the result was quite adequate-"

"Exactly. _Your first_. I don't want to be your first, Sherlock, I'm not a fucking lab rat!" John blurted out, looking somewhere away from the detective's face.

That hurt.

"Noted. I will not engage in anything physical again with you, John."

"Good" John said, standing up. "I'm going to bed."

Sherlock did not say anything.

"I'm going away for a few days." John added.

"Oh. Where?" he asked, coldly.

"Greg's."

"What for?"

"Because" he took a deep breath "I need a vacation from you."

And with that, he left.

* * *

"Welcome to my bachelor's pad." Lestrade said ironically as John set his things near a small couch that was designated to be his bed for the time being. "There's beer in the fridge, if you'd like." It was the next day after John had told Sherlock he needed a break, and John had kept to his words right after he finished his work.

"Yeah, thanks, Greg."

The flat into which Lestrade had moved into after his divorce (that came much later than it should have, they kept getting back together, and the entire Scotland Yard followed the process like a particularly interesting sitcom) was small, situated in a small building further away from the centre of London. It had one bedroom and bath; the interior was old fashioned, but Greg seemed to have kept the place clean – or was it that John had been too used to Sherlock's mess?

Lestrade disappeared into the kitchen, and John sat down on the couch, turning the television on. The BBC news channel was his first choice. For two minutes he listened to the reporter babble about some government hacking scandal, until Greg returned with the drinks, switching to Top Gear.

"So" the DI said as he passed a bottle of dark beer over to John "what the hell did he do?"

"I really can't talk about it." John said, taking a big gulp of the Irish brew.

"Yeah, I get that. When me and my wife-" he immediately cut himself off "shit, sorry, bad comparison."

"Whatever. Everyone thinks I'm shagging him anyway."

Greg made a face. "Are you?"

John let out a humourless laugh.

"No offence but I hope you don't sleep on my couch for too long. London needs you two."

"I'm still going to help with the cases, if I can. I just don't want to be around him all the time. Anyway, can we talk about something else?"

"Well, we can talk about my wife." Greg offered, smiling.

"Or about your affair with a government official?" John retorted, enjoying the confused look on his friend's face. "Sherlock told me." God, he could not go a second without mentioning that man.

"I really hope that was a clever deduction." Greg said.

"It was. Why do you say, _hope_?"

"Because if it's empiric evidence I might as well just immigrate to Iceland."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Lestrade made a horrified face. "God, no."

They sat in silence for a while, watching a famous actor do the lap in a reasonably priced car. After two more beers and a friendly sharing of the Stig jokes, a comfortable silence surrounded them.

"I feel so fucking done sometimes." the DI stated, sighing deeply. Exhaustion had left a deep mark on his face.

"You've got plans for the evening?" John asked.

"Well, no. We could go to a pub. You're single, right?"

"Yeah." John replied. "Are you?"

Greg did not reply immediately.

"Well… To be honest, I don't even know. I can be your… wingman, or something. I haven't done these things for years."

* * *

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs Hudson said as she entered the flat. "Boys, are you decent?"

"It's just me, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock replied.

"Oh, but it's so late. Where's John?"

"I believe soon the flat won't need the second bedroom, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock said, without turning to look at her.

He felt… hollow. He had no other way to describe it, because the previous feeling of anger, loss and heart clenching pain had someone all gone. He was void of everything.

"Oh, Sherlock, you know he will come back! When you were in Moscow, he had missed you so horribly, you should have seen him."

"Why are you here, Mrs Hudson?" he asked, not wanting to talk more about the doctor.

"I made a bit too much dinner; I thought you boys would appreciate it? I'll leave it in the kitchen."

When she was gone, Sherlock walked over to the window. It was snowing for the first time this year in London, but the snowflakes melted immediately as they hit the ground. It made him recall the Red Square, and that moment when he saw John.

He picked up the violin and started to compose. He was so lost among his feelings, so very unaccustomed to the ways they shaped his life. John was like cocaine.

John did not want to be Sherlock's first. The detective wondered, whether a previous partner would have changed John's mind. If Sherlock was more experienced, perhaps he would know what he had missed.

But he didn't. Two days had passed, two long, snowy days as Christmas approached indomitably, and he hadn't seen John or heard his voice. London was silent, no murders, no crime; time passed slowly it seemed sometimes like it had stopped – only the snowflakes, falling down to the ground had reminded him, that somewhere life was still happening, that people were still living and that he, too, would have to live until death takes him.

He had been separated from John too many times now; and it was no accident that it was so. Perhaps, they simply could not be together anymore. It hurt each time when he would have John and then loose him again; and each time, it hurt _more_. Nothing made sense. Nothing.

John did not want him. To hear him say it was the final proof. Sherlock had to accept that fact. It was the way things worked.

Perhaps, he could forget John. With time. Not the man, not the soldier, but the way he had shaped his life. The way he was never meant to feel, but he did with John. The way his heart had betrayed the cold mind and made him weep without the embrace of the man he loved.

How many times do you try a hypothesis before you state the fact that it had been wrong? Once? Twice? Sherlock had enough. John was never going to be his.

* * *

John spent his two days doing two things: trying not to think about Sherlock, and thinking of Sherlock. It was the weekend – he had no job to go to, and most of his books were in Baker Street, as well as his laptop. Greg didn't have anything good to read either – so John killed time while watching television. Lestrade had to go into work on the weekend. John didn't remember the last time he spent such a long time aimlessly.

He thought that the few days spent apart will give him time to decide what exactly he should do. He knew, for a fact, that he could never truly know what was going on in his best friend's head, but the few things he did know lead to some rather upsetting conclusions.

John had never thought about Sherlock as a sexual person, but it seemed now, that even when it came to physical interaction, he used his methods of observation to determine the best course of action. Even when he was aroused, he could still clearly judge John's reactions and make adjustments. How else could have possibly known so well where to touch himself and what to say. And the look in his eyes, it just screamed _want me, want me, want me._

But why? Why? If it was an initial attraction when they first met, John would have understood that. But now, after all this time…? John wished he could just have sex with him, and he _really_ wanted to, but the one thing had scared him more than anything else.

He was afraid of falling for the man that could not love him back.

Love. Love was what John wanted, and all the tedious little things that came with being in love, like holding hands, and celebrating Valentine's day; meeting each other's parents, eating breakfast together, planning a mutual future…

But Sherlock despised all of those things. And John knew that a part of him had already succumbed to wanting a piece of that brilliant man's heart, but he could still resist it. It was not too late, but his feet were already at the edge, and one simple step could make him fall. If he did as much as lay his lips on Sherlock's…

* * *

The next day, Lestrade had phoned John about a murder downtown.

The murder scene was a small flat on the 6th floor, a woman laid dead with a stab wound in the chest. When John arrived, Sherlock was already there, kneeling on the floor and inspecting her sleeve.

"Mustard." he said. "Of course." he looked up to see John walk into the room awkwardly, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"John, please look at the body, I need a medical opinion."

Work came before all else. John knelt on the opposing side of the dead woman, carefully rolled her around and inspected the corpse.

"Has marks on her skin, few days old. Self-inflicted." he continued to tell Sherlock and the police officers the rest of what he could tell from the body. When John was done, Sherlock stood up and brushed the dust off of his coat and trousers.

"I know exactly where to go." He said, giving everyone the you-are-all-beneath-me look. "I'll have the murder by tomorrow." he smirked at Lestrade. "Laters."

As he left the room, John followed him out.

"How can you _possibly_ know who it was!"

"The dust. Have you seen all the dust, John? The woman didn't live here – no one lived here for quite some time, she was brought here already dead because there was very little blood on the floor, and when you stab someone in that way, there's quite an amount, it splashes everywhere. They could have cleaned it, but you can't replace the dust. So whoever has the key to this apartment, is either the killer or someone connected to the killer."

"So obvious when you say it! So… where to next?"

Sherlock turned around to look at him.

"I will call you if I need you." were his exact, bitter words. The look on his face hadn't changed, but John felt like the temperature had dropped ten degrees.

"Yeah, uh, right. Okay." he replied, but Sherlock had already turned his coat collar up and left the corridor, a corner of his coat's flap disappearing around the corner together with John's words.

"Cold." Lestrade said, peeking from the room. It seemed that the rest of Scotland Yard's guys heard the conversation. No one beside Greg and John knew, however, that it was not normal for Sherlock to deny John's help. Not ever.

When John came back to Greg's place, a new kind of nuisance had presented itself. When he went to charge his dying phone he realised that there was another item he forgot to bring.

_Fuck._

* * *

When John walked into their flat, he found it empty. _Thank God for small mercies._

He found his phone charger right where he left it. The room hadn't been touched since he left it two days ago, still the same boring single bed and a desk arrangement, one he had been used to so much it was painful to sleep elsewhere. He wondered how soon he would return to live here, how much time it would take until things went back to normal. Well, "normal".

Before John left, he peeked inside Sherlock's room for reasons he could not state; perhaps to make sure Sherlock really was not at home, perhaps because he see if there were any traces of drugs inside of it; but that all became irrelevant a moment after.

What he saw, on Sherlock's bed, stabbed him right at the heart.

It was John's jumper.

It was his old, soft worn-out beige jumper, crumped on the side of the bed on which he slept on when they were in Moscow; Sherlock must have taken it.

And he… He _slept_ with it.

And then it finally clicked in John's head. The drugs, the swollen eyes, the bleeding fingertips, the hug and the need for touch, they were all jealousy, sadness and heartache, and John had caused all of them, all of them on his best friend and the man he cared so much about. How could have he known, when he was specifically told over and over again that Sherlock had no room in his mind for things like that, how could he even dare dream that _he_, John Watson, would end up capturing that heart, hidden so well under layers of frost?

And had he never looked inside that room and at that bed, he wouldn't have known how wrongly he accused Sherlock of _using_ him. The meaning of his own words had shown themselves to John in a different light now; and he realised how hurtful they must have been.

_Oh, Sherlock, you socially inept git. _John thought and almost started to cry. He had no idea. He had no idea, to this moment, how much pain he had caused him. And Sherlock never told him… Not a word, not a whisper. That moment, when he was about to leave to propose to Mary and Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders… John should have known then. He should have seen the sadness and known that Sherlock had done one of the biggest mistakes in his life and taken John into his heart, even if he knew he could never have him.

And even after Mary was gone, Sherlock hadn't said a thing. Perhaps he doesn't understand. Perhaps he doesn't even consider that John could love him. His eagerness to get close, if only physically…

John closed his eyes. The guilt was unbearable.

Love was a strange thing. Some people were in love all the time – they needed it, like air, craved for it, like men crave for food during starvation, they were hollow without it. And some ran from it, far and long. Some men loved with all their hearts and souls, and some men loved with all their minds and thoughts. Some shouted it in streets and others kept it to themselves. But some men could not love.

John looked at his jumper on Sherlock's bed.

_And some only thought they could not._

* * *

As he left the flat in haste, John managed to text Molly, and soon got the answer that Sherlock was in the lab at Bart's. John gave the address to the cabby and sat back, looking through the window. He sure has gained plenty of grey hair while taking nerve-wrecking cab rides that seemed to last forever.

When the cab finally stopped and he got out, it dawned on him that St Bartholomew's Hospital's lab was the place where they had first met.

Who could have known back then, of the things about to take place in the very same room?


	11. Highly unsanitary

**Chapter 11: Highly unsanitary**

* * *

He sat by the microscope, back straight as a violin string, long fingers lying gently on the handles of the device, completely still, like statue of the finest marble. On his right side was a collection of blood samples that he was testing and a piece of note paper, decorated with his precise, sharp handwriting.

He was exactly as John had first seen him.

For a heartbeat, John felt transported back to that moment when he gave Sherlock his phone when they first met; he remembered the impression Sherlock had left on him. Mad. Arrogant. Rude. And charming. So charming in fact, that John could not stay away even if common sense told him it was a bad idea.

He just _felt_ it. He shot on a man to save Sherlock's life on their very first case and never did he even think to question that decision. He felt an immediate fondness of sorts to the handsome madman who, despite not having friends, accepted John immediately and made him part of his world.

John knew that, in some kind of parallel world he and Sherlock would have been best friends until the end of their days. But now, things stood in the way of their friendship. Frightening, confusing and beautiful things. There was no greater feeling than to be cared for by someone who despises everyone else.

"Sherlock." he said to announce he was here, although Sherlock could have told it was him by the sound of his footsteps.

"Busy." he replied, not once looking at John.

John walked over to Sherlock without taking his time to stand around. His quick pace, as though he was in a hurry, had caught the detective's attention and he lifted his eyes from the microscope, raising his brows.

"Have they found something else?" He asked, clearly talking about the case.

The work. Always the work, and the cold, and the calculated. Even when John had enough evidence to deduce Sherlock's heart, he felt hesitation creeping in as Sherlock's cold gaze pierced him. He could have never told, in this moment, that the same man would cuddle his jumper in desperate need for closeness. If anything, John felt being pushed away and unwanted, as Sherlock looked at him now like he did at everyone else.

"I don't think so. That's not why I'm here." John said, uncomfortably, as Sherlock stood up and buttoned up his jacket, so that he would look down at John, and not the other way around.

"I told you already I don't require further assistance for now."

John was standing in front of him for, what it seemed, no apparent reason. He did not want to see him right now. He had to finish these blood tests.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. Forgive me." he said, voice full of guilt, tired, nervous. His hands landed gently on Sherlock's shoulders, as though testing a dangerous ground.

"John-"

His face. His face was so close. Why? Sherlock could see now even the type of shaver John used this morning from the slight stubble. _Electric_. He could see how the grey and blue mixed in his eyes, the difference from one eye to the other. Very very close. He could see every wrinkle on his face, every freckle. And then, he was so close that everything was just a blur. Sherlock could feel his warm breath land on his lips. John's hand slid up and cupped his neck, pulling him slightly downwards and erasing the distance between them.

As their lips touched just barely, both men stopped to breathe; they stood there, frozen in time and in the almost-kiss, their hearts racing in their chests, their thoughts incoherent and tangled with everything and nothing all at once. John felt the softness of Sherlock's lips as he gently brushed against them, not pulling away but not leaning in either. Both of them had their eyes open, but neither could clearly see. Sherlock blinked rapidly and pushed his head forward, ramming their lips together not with a kiss but with collision of the teeth underneath their flesh.

He had never kissed anyone before.

John almost gasped as Sherlock painfully pressed himself to him. Right then, _right then_ he got his confirmation of the things he guessed for so long at. In all of the confusion, pain, running from and running towards, there was finally something he could hold onto. Those lips. That _need._

They spent a second just like that, breathing heavily through their noses.

Then John pulled away only slightly, parted his lips and took Sherlock's bottom lip between them in a soft embrace, leaning into the kiss, angling his head to the side so that their noses would not collide. He kissed him carefully, gently, lovingly. As he pulled slightly away again, Sherlock parted his lips too and closed his eyes, his hands finally landing on John's back.

When their lips came together again it was the first real, mutual kiss – very innocent and tender.

It was so much unlike anything he had ever done. Sherlock felt how his own body seemed to know what to do, as though instinct had taken over control. It felt like pressing his lips to John's now was the most important thing in the world. The _only_ thing.

When John pulled away to see Sherlock's face, he met a completely different gaze than before.

"John." he said, dazed like John had never seen him. "John, Molly's here."

John looked at the corner of the room and finally saw the poor woman stare at them with such a shocked face that John almost went completely red in colour. She hadn't made a sound.

"Oh." John managed to say. "I didn't notice you Molly."

"It's- I- I should leave-" she blurted out before disappearing into another room.

"_Now_ people will talk." John said, forcing a smile. Sherlock's hands were still on him.

"What are you sorry for?" Sherlock asked, his voice surprisingly warm.

"For thinking that- well, for being wrong about you." John said, gently caressing Sherlock's neck on which his hands were still on. He could not believe he was allowed to do this. It felt not unlike touching a statue in the most secure museum, and having the guards just smile at you in approval.

"Wrong how?" He demanded, glancing at John's lips which he had, just a second ago, pressed to his. It was somehow strange to think of it that way. Lips he kissed.

"Do you know this is where we met for the first time?" John said instead.

"Of course." Sherlock gave him a look that clearly said it was the most stupid question in the history of stupid questions.

"Okay, well what I mean is… That is…" he smiled. "You still have a case to solve, don't you?"

Sherlock let go of him slowly and moved back to his seat at the microscope, his gaze still slightly unfocused. The case. The blood samples. He had just been kissed by the man he loved. _Kissed_. Sherlock Holmes did not _kiss_. Except, of course, if it was John Watson. Apparently, if it was John, then none of the rules applied.

Blood samples, he reminded himself. He killer was still loose. He continued to work, sometimes watching John in his parallel vision. He, in return, watched him.

John observed Sherlock at the microscope, trying to come to terms with the fact that he just started something that was completely _mad_. He kissed Sherlock Holmes. People told him not to spend time with him, not to get involved, because Sherlock Holmes was a sociopath and a freak, and possibly very dangerous. So what does John do? He _kisses_ him.

_Classic Watson. _

While the detective was waiting for the test results, he pulled away from the specimens and finally met John's eyes again, who, he knew, had not once stopped looking at him.

"It's strange." he said. "Kissing is just rubbing your lips against another person's. Highly unsanitary. Do you know the mouth has more bacteria than…"

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed.

"My question being, are you just rubbing your lips against mine, or does that mean something?" he asked seriously.

Sherlock needed to know. He needed to know _now_. As much as sexual experience with John had affected him, this was something else altogether. He did not entirely understand the purpose of kissing, for it seemed to be quite pointless, and yet it was somehow essential to other people. And it seemed that he, too, was affected by the act.

It brought him such _need_. Much like thirst, only so much stronger. He was afraid of how that moment blinded him, but at the same time it was fascinating. John's lips, on his; so simple and so complicated. But what did it mean?

"It means I'm sorry and- if you want" John cleared his throat. "if you want, we could do the- the things you want- but not kissing, if you don't like that. If you didn't-"

"I liked it." Sherlock said, looking though the microscope lens again. Nothing in his tone reflected the subject of their dialogue. He sounded like he did always.

Like he did before all the bad things happened. Like Sherlock.

A heavy weight fell down John's shoulders, only to be replaced by a new one. Now that he finally knew what exactly was bothering Sherlock, he had no idea how to handle it. That kiss was as far as he had planned.

"I left my coat in the adjacent room. The inner pocket, right-side – get me the bag from there." Sherlock said, but John could not stop thinking about the fact that those lips were softly pressed to his just a minute ago. Sherlock had the case to focus on now – but John, John had all the time in the world to recall every move Sherlock's lips had made.

John made his way through the door. Molly was there.

"Oh! John. Do you need anything?" she asked, looking at him in a very strangely, with slight blush on her cheeks.

"Yes, do you have a condom?" he asked, not very sure why. It was funny – and he was clearly mad now, so did it have to have a reason? He heard Sherlock's laugh coming from another room. Molly gaped.

"I'm joking, Molly. And – I'm sorry I didn't notice you." he went to look for Sherlock's coat and Molly, having recovered from the question, followed him.

"It's okay, I mean you- Well, either way I'm glad that- everyone always said but I thought- well it's nice that" they were far enough from the door where she thought Sherlock would not hear what they're saying but she lowered her voice anyway "that Sherlock has you. He's always been so lonely."

"I don't think Sherlock knows the meaning of the word." John said.

Sherlock could hear Molly say those words. _Has you. _Did he really finally had John?

When John brought the bag to Sherlock, he compared the test samples. Few hours later he was already phoning Lestrade with the information about the case. John waited for him in the lab, nervous, feeling the moment of uncertainty approach him. As soon as the case was solved, there will be nothing else to think about, but the way they just kissed. It was not a passionate, long kiss, but it was the only kiss in the world that mattered to him right now.

* * *

As they sat in the cab, silent, both were thinking about the kiss, but neither said a thing. As soon as they climbed inside, Sherlock gave the address to Baker Street, and John did not protest. He'll get his things from Greg later. It seemed that even Sherlock understood the meaning of what just happened between them – he did not even ask John whether he was coming back home. And he smiled. It warmed John's heart.

Of course, plenty of things were still unclear.

_Basically_, John thought, _everything._

He could see, in his parallel vision that Sherlock was looking at him attentively. _I suppose I owe him an explanation._

"Look, Sherlock…"

"It's okay John."

"You don't even know what I was going to say!"

Sherlock smirked.

"The tone in your voice suggested it was some kind clarification for what happened. I don't need to know."

"You don't?"

"John, people are idiots and they do idiotic things, especially where emotions are involved. Even if you attempt to explain, it's not going to help. Anyway, I already know."

John sighed. "So you're calling me an idiot?"

"Yes." Sherlock shrugged. As John was about to protest, he looked at Sherlock and forgot what he was going to say completely. The look in Sherlock's eyes made his insides melt.

They smiled at each other.

"Can you do something for me?" John asked.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a suggestive way.

"No, I mean-" John blushed slightly because he knew what Sherlock was thinking of. "Will you go on a date with me?" he looked at his feet. "I know it's not your area but… I'd like that."

Sherlock considered it.

"What will that involve?"

"Dinner. In a nice place. With wine. Talking."

"Don't we already do that?"

"Hand holding. Kissing." John said, slightly terrified of having voiced that.

"John." Sherlock said seriously. "If you want me to be like the women you dated than I regret to say that I cannot do that."

"No." John shook his head. "No, I don't mean for you to-"

"But the things you mentioned, I can do them." He thought on it further. "If you make a list John, I could inform you which parts of this dating I find agreeable."

"I'm not making a list, Sherlock…" John shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous."

Sherlock made a face that said no-you-are-ridiculous.

"Look, it's just one date, okay? Don't think too much about it."

_One_. Sherlock thought about it. Was this a test, to see if John wanted to be with him? He'll be needing that list. In detail.

"I'll need a few days." He said, thinking over a plan of further research into kissing, hand holding and dating in general.

"What?" John's eyes grew wider. "Few days? I was thinking we could go somewhere _tonight." _

Sherlock looked at John's lips again. When people kissed, they would often look like they were trying to swallow each other. It looked horrid. But perhaps, that was what John expected for them to do as well? Now that he…

He frowned.

Now that he _what_?

Sherlock did not know. John dated women and he would kiss them, he would hold their hands – and they would stop speaking to each other after weeks. Weeks. What if a couple of weeks was all he had before John would realise it's not what he wants? That _Sherlock_ is not what he wants? What if, two weeks was all he had?

But even if it was two months. Or two years. It would not be enough. Nothing short of forever would be enough.

He looked at John and a terrible feeling came over him. What if his incompetence in these matters will make him lose the one man he ever cared about?

* * *

**Author's note: **thank you all for reviewing/following/faving my story. Inspired by the support, I am composing a very "special" chapter which I will post soon, depending on how the plot unfolds.


	12. First date

**Chapter 12: First date**

* * *

"Are those… beetles?"

"Yes."

"In our flat?"

"Yes."

"LOOSE?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock, for God's sake why are there fucking bugs running all over our flat?"

"I had them for an experiment. They seemed to have escaped from their compartment."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Hm. Few days."

"Sherlock!"

"I do like it when you say my name like that, John."

"We need to… we need to capture the beetles Sherlock." where did Sherlock get _that_ line from?

"Well what about our date?" Sherlock said petulantly.

"First, we capture the beetles. _Then,_ we go on a date. God that's one sentence I never thought I say."

"You catch them; I have something else I need to do." Sherlock said.

"Like what?"

"Research."

"What, watching porn again?"

"I have, yes."

"Find something you like?"

"Found something _you_ like." Sherlock grinned.

John's face was completely red, as if his blood had boiled underneath his skin. Sherlock must have looked in his… "work" folder.

"Oh. Right. Look." John said seriously. "What I said about you not doing this, I still mean it."

"Dull." Sherlock frowned.

"I want to do this - us - properly."

"Who cares about being proper? Instead of talking about things no one cares about we could have been halfway through the plot of the video with the policeman and-"

"Sherlock, seriously!"

"The uniform was wrong though." Sherlock said regretfully. "Badge completely inaccurate. He had a big penis, so I suppose that compensates a bit. Very big. Almost as big as yours."

John cleared his throat and blushed again. He was too old to blush, but somehow he did anyway.

"Let's not make my cock a topic of our discussion, okay?"

"John, if it was my decision, my mouth would be busy with things other than discussing it."

"Why are you so obsessed with this?"

"Look, you're already getting an erection." he said in a simple manner. "It's new to me, I'm interested."

"You mean horny."

"No, I mean interested."

"No, you mean horny."

"I enjoy watching how you react to these things. It has nothing to do with my own needs."

"Capture the beetles, and get dressed for the date." John instructed, trying very much not to think further on the policeman video.

"I am dressed!"

"What, with the same suit that you wore in the morgue?"

Sherlock made a confused face.

"If I look nicer than you do, you're paying." John shook his finger in front of Sherlock's face.

Sherlock scoffed.

"Won't happen."

* * *

"Okay, this is ridiculous."

"What is?"

"This. Fucking. Place?" John shook his head. "We can't afford to go here."

"Oh, I don't know about that, I do know the owner."

"Of course you do."

It was one of those restaurants that looked so expensive, John had a theory they would charge for the air breathed. Right in the centre of London, chandeliers glistening like diamonds. John had put on his best suit and tie – and all the while he dressed he thought about how strange the whole situation was. With whom he has a date with.

Sherlock had changed, as he instructed, and looked undeniably better than… well, everyone. John noticed that he took a long shower beforehand; even though his face seemed normal, his body was awfully stiff. John hoped Sherlock was nervous. He himself felt like eating his own nails.

The night started out as usual – they met in the sitting room and went outside together, called a cab and talked about the past case while driving to the restaurant. Sherlock insisted he'd pick it. John regretted letting him.

"Come on then." Sherlock opened the door for him as they stepped inside, a waiter in a very impressive uniform immediately greeting them with the biggest, most ass-kissing smile John had ever seen.

"Good evening, sirs."

"I've got a table reserved. Holmes."

"Ah, yes, right this way."

He led them to a very cosy booth that had a card with Sherlock's name on it. Every other table at the restaurant was taken.

"Must have been hard to get a table in such short notice." John said as he sat on the opposite side of Sherlock.

"As I said I do know the owner." he turned to the waiter. "We'll start with some wine." He said something in French and the waiter went away.

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asked, his face buried in the menu. "I am thinking spaghetti."

"How do you know the owner?"

"Big business figure here in London. Proved he couldn't have cheated on his wife."

"Solving domestics?"

"He's a rich man. She sued him – if his adultery was proven, she would have taken half the money."

"Ah, I see. I'm thinking ravioli."

As soon as they ordered and the waiter left (not before giving Sherlock a seductive smile which he completely missed), both dropped dead silent. John caught Sherlock's eyes staring at him and looked away awkwardly.

"Do you have any… hobbies?" Sherlock asked, in a similar way as a hostage does speak the words he's told at gunpoint. With great difficulty, through gritted teeth and very very painfully.

"What?" John blinked. "You _live_ with me."

"Yes, but, on a date it is a custom to start off with this kind of tedious small talk."

"What, have you read something?"

Sherlock flashed a PDF in his phone in front of John's face.

"Your hair looks good." He said. John rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Ah, compliment on appearance. Check." the detective said.

"Oh for God's sake." John covered his face.

"And you smell nice."

"You hate this perfume; you told me a week ago that it makes you nauseous."

The next thing that came across Sherlock's list must have caused him some difficulty, as he frowned slightly, glanced at John, and then back at the PDF.

"John…" he started, then his irises rolled to the corners of his eyes like when he was thinking. "Have you-" he shook his head. "No, that's not it. Did-" he stapled his hands together, thought for a second, and then his face lit up as he had found his answer. "I've got a double bed."

"Yes, I know. Why are you telling me?"

"Don't you see? It's flirting."

"That's not flirting."

"Of course it is! I give you the knowledge my bed has the capacity to hold two people, as an obvious hint I'd like to sleep with you."

"You're terrible at this. Put the phone away."

Sherlock pouted as the phone disappeared into his pocket.

"I do have most of it memorised, though."

"Oh God, please don't." John smiled reassuringly. "I appreciate what you're doing I mean it's- it's really unexpected, but you don't need to do this. Let's just have dinner."

"If this is a regular dinner, than why are you nervous?" Sherlock retorted, examining John's face.

"Why are you?" John snapped.

"I'm not nervous, I lack data. I told you, I would need time t-"

"To read wiki-how articles meant for 14 year olds?" John chuckled. "Is this your first date?" he then asked, trying hard not to make it sound like a big deal.

"Not exactly." he replied. "Some cases had required me to meet certain people in a fashion that's similar to that of dating."

"But never… for personal reasons?"

"You are many firsts for me, John."

The doctor looked down at his own hands on the table, shy smile on his lips. The waiter came and they ordered. John noticed how he looked attentively at the both of them, probably trying to determine their relationship.

But not even John himself knew where he and Sherlock stood now.

He saw Sherlock's hand resting on the table. Taking a deep breath, he went for it.

Sherlock was examining the waiter as he brought utensils to the table. Single. Has a bit of problem with his liver. Gay. Plays tennis. Recently been on holiday in the south.

Suddenly, he felt John's fingers wrap around his free hand. He glanced at the doctor immediately, but he was looking elsewhere. His short fingers now held his hand in a warm embrace on the table, thumb drawing circles on Sherlock's knuckle.

The detective looked at the hands. It was odd how he, Sherlock Holmes, had managed to get into a situation where another person would touch him in such ways and he would not mind. He could not, however, say that it did not affect him. The way John had caressed him told Sherlock that he was doing okay. And that, that was good.

They've been silent for a while now. Sherlock had no idea if that was supposed to be. John seemed uncomfortable. The detective moved his fingers to look check John's pulse. Elevated.

"Stop checking my pulse." John frowned.

Sherlock put his hand in the original position and curled his fingers around John's careful not to disturb the position of the hands. He imagined it must have been important to John in some way.

"You're not talking." John stated.

Ah, so he had noticed the silence too.

"I'm thinking." he replied honestly.

"About work?"

Sherlock looked John in the eyes.

"No, you."

"Oh." John managed to say, his face changing completely. He was – surprised. And flattered. And something else was in his face – something Sherlock had seen a few times before but he never understood what emotion it was. But Sherlock liked that look. It made him oddly… faint. But in a good way.

_I'm falling for him completely_, John thought as Sherlock stared at him attentively. He was always so observant, but now, _now_ he was so devoted on examining John. _He must know I'm completely losing it. _And _God_, did he hit a right key in John's heart.

Their food arrived. The waiter, seeing their hands on the table shot John an unbelieving look. He grinned. _Yes, that's right._

"Feeling cocky?" Sherlock asked, pulling his hand away to eat.

"What?" John asked innocently.

"I know, I'm quite a catch." Sherlock said.

"Modest as ever." John chuckled.

They ate a few bites, smiling.

"Are you sleeping with me tonight?" Sherlock asked, and John almost spat his food out.

"Uh" he managed to say.

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone ringed.

"It's Lestrade." He said, before picking up. "Yes? I see. How fresh? I'm on my way." he put the phone in his pocket. "There's been another."

"Okay, let's go then." John said, standing up immediately and looking for his jacket.

Only John could be so understanding of the importance of his work. Only John would not mind leaving mid dinner to see a dead man with a stab wound on another side of London. How was he so different than any other person Sherlock has ever known? He accepted the fact that work came above all else for Sherlock… But perhaps, the detective thought, two things could come above all else, together? After all, he was married to his work, but John was a _part_ of his work.

"Someone's been murdered, stop smiling." John said.

He didn't realise he was.

* * *

"Hello, freak." Sally said, looking at John and Sherlock both as they climbed up the stairs of the old abandoned apartment building near the Thames. "John." she nodded.

"Nothing connects both of these, except the way of death." Lestrade said. "Same, sharp instrument to the chest, few days apart."

"Wrong." Sherlock said. "The two knew each other." everyone around looked confused. "Don't you _see_? It was his jacket that she was wearing when we found her at the flat. Look at his collar. You can see he was wearing a jacket, shirt is only partially stained. We need to compare the stains, although there are plenty of other reasons to believe they knew each other. For one-"

"Yes, but the killer of the woman had been caught before the death of this man." Donovan said.

"It might not be the same killer." John said, examining the body. "this one has been stabbed with the same or similar weapon, but not the same force."

"Shared motive" Lestrade said.

Something clicked in Sherlock's mind.

"John, I need you to go get the jacket we found on the woman, take a picture of the stain and send it to me. I'm going to the west end of London."

"What, why?" John asked, walking with him to the door.

"All of these four people belong to the same martial arts studio. I saw a membership card at the first flat. Both the two victims and the man we have in custody are very athletic, but thin. And the weapon – that's a lead too. The person who killed the man must have ties to that place as well. It's probably a woman. Take a picture of that stain. Take Lestrade with you, I might need you two as soon as I find something."

"Martial arts? You think they've been having some sick tournaments to the death?" Greg shook his head, holding his hand steadily on the wheel as the police car rushed though London streets to the Scotland Yard's lab, where the evidence was kept.

"Could be some kind of cult." John said. "No signs of struggle on the victim's skins – could be the killer was too swift for them to react, but also possibly they could have died willingly? It's hard to tell."

Lestrade glanced at him.

"I know a bachelor's dating gear when I see it. You're back in the game, I take it?"

"You could say that."

"This wasn't a first date we interrupted, was it?"

"Yeah, it was."

"Oh, bollocks. I'm sorry, mate. I hope she's understanding."

John did not say anything.

"Oh, God. You arrived in the same cab with Sherlock. Did he come to pull you out of the date in person?" Greg laughed. "With the whole coat collar and cheekbones dramatic swoop thing?"

John made a noise that was not quite a snicker or a snort, but some kind of combination of both.

"If she goes out with you again… She's a keeper." he turned the corner. "You know what, you can invite her as your plus one in the Christmas party at the Yard."

"I doubt…" John licked his lips. "that _she_ would be interested."

"Oh. Well, perhaps she'll change her mind."

"And the government official?" John asked.

"Won't be there." Greg said. "The whole thing is strictly on the booty-call basis, if you pardon my expression."

* * *

"You'll need to look into every person on this list." Sherlock said, giving a piece of paper to Lestrade. "It's a sect. Orgies, sacrificing rituals. Possibly responsible for a few deaths you deemed as suicides. I'm sure you can handle the rest, I've done most of the work for you. Oh and the murderer is downstairs. John's watching over her. Have your men arrest her."

"Bloody hell." Lestrade said. "You're fast today."

"This was an interesting one." He smirked. "Call me if you can't handle the rest."

* * *

The sun had risen already when they arrived at Baker Street, both exhausted after the night's chase. As they entered the flat, John could barely reach the sofa with the state his legs were in.

"The thing about these kind of cases is that after one is over, another one as interesting as it is not likely to come by soon. Statistically speaking of course." Sherlock said as he slid out of his coat and jacket. Only now, John noticed the blood stains on his shirt.

"Whose blood in that?" He asked.

"Mine." Sherlock replied, indifferently. Then, noticing John's expression he added: "Oh don't worry, the cuts aren't deep."

"Sit down and wait, I'll get my med kit."

When he returned, he found Sherlock obediently sitting on the couch. Which was not like him. John could see the strange eager expression on his face.

"Okay, take off the shirt, it's ruined anyway." John said, sitting beside him. Sherlock did not move an inch.

"I think I'm too wounded to make such sudden moves. You'll have to undress me."

John shot him an unbelieving glare. "So you _do_ know how to flirt. Of course, when you're wounded it's not the best time-"

"Oh. Do I? Is it working?"

"Right now, I'm concerned about disinfecting the cuts, Sherlock."

John unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt quickly, trying not to see it as anything more than him being a good doctor. His best friend was hurt. It was not the time to enjoy the view.

There were three not very deep cuts on Sherlock's torso. Two on the neck and one on side of his stomach. John poured some disinfectant on the sterile cloth and began cleaning the one closest to Sherlock's jaw, his other hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder for support.

"You should have called someone instead of going after her yourself. It could have been so much worse than this."

"She would have escaped if I waited." Sherlock replied, his hands reaching for John's neck. As he placed them on the back of John's head, the doctor looked up from the wound and met his eyes.

"Will you let me work?" John asked, with pretend anger, although his eyes still glanced at Sherlock's lips for a second.

"I'm not getting in your way."

"You're distracting me, alright?"

"Oh. Good."

"No…" John shook his head and moved onto the wound on the lower part of Sherlock's body. As soon as his fingers touched the skin there, Sherlock jumped up in his seat suddenly, his eyes widening.

"Does it hurt here?" John asked, but he saw that Sherlock had a very different kind of expression on his face than that of anger. "Are you… are you ticklish?" John asked, his lips parting in surprise.

"I… I don't know." Sherlock said hesitantly, wondering whether that was a bad thing. John smiled and reached for Sherlock's other side underneath the shirt, and surely enough, he gotten the exact same reaction. The detective laughed involuntarily. "Stop it." he said in a voice few octaves higher than usual, like a petulant four year old. John laughed too.

He cleaned finished cleaning the wound on the younger man's side. Sherlock observed him cautiously for further attacks but John did not dare. How can someone not know they're ticklish at this age?

John shifted his position to reach the wound on the side that was facing from him, he had to slide over until their legs were almost touching, side by side. He put his hand on Sherlock's head to turn it; the cut was on the other side of the neck.

"This is uncomfortable." Sherlock complained. John rolled his eyes.

"Shut up and let me finish, it won't take long."

Sherlock waited patiently until John was done, but he did not keep silent. He told John every detail about the case he was still unaware of, and when he was done, so was John. The doctor put the bottle and cloth away and sat up straight on the couch, running his fingers through his light hair.

Then, he felt Sherlock's leg pressing against his. He looked up.

He had seen that look in other people's eyes. Almost never had he seen that look directed towards him, but he knew exactly what it was.

Sherlock was undressing him with his eyes.

"I've got work in a few hours." John said. "I need to get some sleep."

"Sleep is boring." Sherlock replied.

"I know. See you tonight?" John stood up. "Do you remember our deal about wine from Tesco?"

"Of course."

"Second dates have fewer rules." John said as he was walking out of the room. Sherlock had no idea what he meant.


	13. Shush

**Chapter 13: Shush**

* * *

The apartment was drenched in a warm, yellow vibrating light coming from the fireplace, in which the wood crackled silently, making up the orchestra of the night together with the rain that hit the rooftops and windows, cold and heavy. There was a candle on the table – and a bottle of wine. _Tesco wine_.

Two ordinary glasses stood beside the dark bottle, one for the doctor and one for the detective. The lights and the TV were off; the flat was silent and calm.

John sat in his chair, dressed in his best shirt, watching the fire dance in front of his eyes. Footsteps approached the door, and he felt the familiar smell of Mrs Hudson's apple pie.

She knocked on the door.

"Come in Mrs Hudson." John said, standing up and smiling.

"I saw wine and candles in the Tesco bag." she smiled sheepishly. "I've baked some pie, dear, for you and your date. If you'd like."

"Thank you, that's… thoughtful…" he said warmly as he approached her and took the plate with the delicious looking pastry. The landlady looked around.

"Oh John, you're such a romantic." she sighed, as though nostalgically. "What about Sherlock then? Won't he be appalled by you bringing someone to the flat?"

John took a deep breath. This was it. It was no longer a choice between lie and truth; it seemed, like a test to him now. A test or whether he could walk the path he had just made the first steps onto. If he could, with all his heart, overcome the obstacles society had built for him. If he could, once and for all, stop denying, and embrace the strange, the mad, the absolutely impossible feeling he held so deep within.

"Actually…" he said. "Sherlock _is_ my date."

Mrs Hudson blinked rapidly.

"Oh, dear, I-" surprise shaped her gentle face. "I thought when you first moved in… But you said… Well, you boys have a nice evening." She smiled and tugged at John's sleeve "Won't be needing the second bedroom then?"

"Mrs Hudson…" John sighed. She almost giggled and left as quickly as her hip allowed.

When the door closed, John smiled to himself.

So, he had said it. Somehow, it was real now. Not because their landlady knew but because when he said it, it felt right.

Sherlock came back from the lab ten minutes after John's conversation with Mrs Hudson. As he walked into the apartment, it was as though he had become a rain cloud – the water he accumulated fell on the floor in drops, making a puddle by the door. It seemed he had been standing under the rain for quite some time.

John might have thought that Sherlock was investigating something outside in this dreadful weather, but the truth was that Sherlock had seen, through the window to their apartment in the Baker Street, the shadows dancing on the sitting room's walls, and that told him the fireplace was lit. Sherlock knew, then, that John was there, waiting for him. He stood before the door to the building, beside Speedy's Café, under the pouring rain and he thought.

For a long while.

When he walked in, he saw John stand up and look at him – his face was warm, and smile gentle. His eyes, corners lit by the fireplace, were full of affection and care.

"You're making a mess." John said.

Sherlock glanced at the few candles and wine briefly.

"Hop in the shower, and join me by the fireplace." the doctor smiled.

Sherlock did not reply, but he did exactly that. John sat back in his chair, the look in Sherlock's eyes stuck in his mind's eye. His gaze was deep, full of strange, curious unspoken thoughts; John could only guess what went through that mind, how _he_ saw their situation.

Where John saw romantic candlelight, Sherlock must have seen potential fire hazard. But John still bothered setting them up, and he wouldn't be able to say why. He just did what he knew, what he felt in his gut was right.

It was not that Sherlock was a man that made John feel so uncertain; it was the fact that he had never dated someone whom he had known so well beforehand. Knowing well was not even the right term. Not even close to what he was to him.

And now, having him as more than he used to be, was it not flying too close to the sun? Even if John was Sherlock's closest friend, there was still so much unknown about him. Such distance between them. And John… John was scared sometimes of all the things he did not know.

Sherlock came back into the sitting room with his dressing gown pulled onto a freshly ironed dark shirt; his hair was damp and he was shoeless, smelling of expensive shampoo and perfume. He walked over to his seat, and having picked up the violin, sat down facing John.

"You haven't said anything today…" John noticed. Sherlock looked him deeply in the eyes, his pupils large, his gaze full of something - secret. As though he knew something that John did not, something that pleased him. As though he was playing the game. He looked at John like he was _everything_; and the doctor's heart fluttered wildly in his chest.

That look could have conquered even the coldest of hearts.

Sherlock's fingers slid gracefully to their position. After one last piercing look he closed his eyes shut and the first note pierced the silence.

John felt every hair on his body stand on end as the first sound of the piece reached his ears; somehow, he knew this wasn't just any composition. Sherlock was playing _for_ him. He had never heard it before.

The piece was full of longing and pain; full of lonely London streets and the ever-pouring cold rain. Dark alleyways shaped like mazes in John's mind, each with their own dark corners of cold and damp; and the sky, the grey and flat sky that hung above the head isolating one from stars. Loneliness of the man, the feeling of loss and blood of a broken heart, all was there. John felt his whole body tremble as he realised that Sherlock had composed the piece. For all his coldness and indifference, his violin cried bloody tears for the heart that John knew he had. And his fingers that held the bow pressed it tightly – for if they did not, they would have shaken violently.

The music flowed like an endless river of thoughts Sherlock could not say in words; bundles of feelings and heartaches and desires, and as he kept playing the notes got higher, and the melody more intense, but the pain had hidden under layers of dreams now – bright and warm like a summer's day. The song spoke then, of hope.

It stopped abruptly, without an end. Unfinished. John stared, startled by the unexpected silence, and Sherlock opened his eyes finally, violin still in his hands and pressed to him, but now completely mute.

John's lips shook and his eyes glistened. He tried to hold back but he could not.

"Sherlock." He said, his voice cracking. "That was amazing."

He was almost crying. Sherlock saw it. He was so touched. Did he know then, the piece had been about him?

Sherlock set the violin aside. John was looking at the fireplace now, trying to hold himself together. A moment of silence passed.

Sherlock opened the wine and poured some in both glasses. John took one, and drank almost half of it immediately.

"Last time we drank like this, things were so different." John said, looking at Sherlock again, now that the tension was no longer unbearable. "Better wine." he added, smiling slightly. "Please, say something, I haven't heard a word from you this whole time."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to the fireplace, took the rake and poked the logs inside, producing an outburst of sparks. His blue eyes reflected the flames, and red mixed in them, like the sunset paints an ocean, with dark strokes of blood.

He had very few words to say to John. What he had now, it was good. Last time they had a night like this, he would have thought it enough. Now, he wanted closeness. Such an alien feeling to him, having ran all his life from other people invading his personal space. But John… Oh, John.

He felt a pair of arms wrapping around him, and a cheek brushing against his back. John slowly pressed himself to him, and warmth filled every corner of Sherlock's body. He crossed his arms and embraced John's, and the doctor exhaled loudly, as though smiling.

They stood there together, Sherlock watching the fire, and John with eyes closed, Sherlock in his embrace. Outside, the rain froze slowly in the cold, a thin layer of ice forming around everything it hit. The night grew older and the glow of London seemed brighter and brighter in the darkness that deepened as the time flown by; and people were born and died somewhere in the world, they married cried and laughed. And Sherlock just watched the fire burn, wondering how different life must have been if he had never met the man that had his arms around him.

"It's odd." John said.

"What is?"

"It's odd that it's not odd at all, you know?"

"I'm not sure I understand."

"I had never been like this with another man. It should be odd to me, at least a little, but it's not. It's _you_. And it's a little impossible, but it's very… good, actually. Even if you're taller than me. You're bloody tall you know that… I'm babbling. Sorry."

"It's you who is short." Sherlock retorted. He carefully removed John's arms from his waist and turned around to face him. "But we both know you've got quite the compensation for your height." he said, smirking. His hands landed on John's shoulders.

John smiled in embarrassment and licked his lips.

"Could be bit much for you to take." he said.

Finally, a pink tint appeared on Sherlock's face, as he parted his lips, flustered.

John ran his fingertips against the front of Sherlock's trousers in an upwards motion and the younger man drew a sharp breath.

"You've teased me enough." John said, his voice changing into one Sherlock had heard those few times when John was aroused. It was – commanding. And strict. Sherlock swallowed audibly, tensing in excitement and the strange thrill that tone brought him.

"John-"

"Shush." the doctor pressed his thumb to Sherlock's lips, his other fingers gently caressing the sharp cheekbone. His other hand slid down Sherlock's back, until it reached his backside, and squeezed one of the cheeks tightly.

The detective ran the tip of his tongue against John's thumb, obeying his command to keep silent. The soldier tugged Sherlock's head forward, having placed his hand on the back of his neck, and through the parted lips he slipped his tongue inside the younger man's mouth.

"Mhm!" Sherlock flailed his arms around, surprised by John's sudden move; the doctor's tongue was soft and slippery against his, invading his mouth. As Sherlock tried to fight it off, John's hands pressed on him harder.

Sherlock could only compare the thing they did to wrestling. John explored Sherlock's mouth eagerly, and the detective could feel John knew what he was doing; he, in return, felt clueless, the strangeness of it all making him feel now, more than ever, out of this dept. He attempted to reach for John's crotch, but John pulled away then and slapped his hand. Sherlock stared at him in surprise.

"No no." John said. "_I_ will do all the touching now." He placed his fingers on Sherlock's chin and tilting his head, asked: "Is that clear?"

Sherlock nodded, wondering of what will happen next. John looked determined. His shyness was nowhere to be found, and it seemed that he had taken control of the whole situation. His confidence made the detective realise this will probably be much different than he had initially planned.

He felt oddly nervous.

John knew well Sherlock had no experience in such things, but he did not take a second to ask for his consent as he pulled him into the bedroom without taking the time to turn the lights on. He knew Sherlock would stop him, if he wanted him to stop. He also knew that Sherlock was a horny bastard, and one that had teased him for _long enough_.

"Take off your shirt." John ordered, sitting on Sherlock's bed and looking at him.

Sherlock blushed slightly upon seeing the look on the doctor's face. He felt his skin covering in tiny goose bumps as he stood in front of the bed, John observing his every move. He undid the buttons, feeling his fingers tangle between themselves as he remembered John's words _could be bit much. _If John was going to _take him_… No, he didn't think he'd be able to hold silent.

He slid out of his shirt, exposing his naked torso and arms. John stood up, walked over, and ran his finger against Sherlock's nipple.

"Cold?" he asked, with a curious glint in his eyes, and rubbed the erect tip between his fingers. Sherlock pressed his lips tightly together, feeling blood rush to his loins. John mimicked his moves on the other side and guided Sherlock to the bed where, have made his flatmate sit, the doctor knelt down on one knee and brought his mouth to Sherlock's skin.

As John licked his nipple, Sherlock let out an involuntary sound. John pulled away slightly, smiling with satisfaction, and then sucked on him, this time with both his lips and tongue.

"Mmm" Sherlock placed his hand on John's shoulder, pressing his fingers hard; John took it with his free hand and peeled it away, holding it captive and not letting Sherlock move.

This was torture. Sherlock squirmed, feeling awfully light headed as John's tasted him, the pressure inside of his pants rising to the point where he wanted to relief himself by giving his cock a stroke, but John slapped his hand again.

"Oh no." John said, having pulled away. "Keep your hands on the bed."

"John." Sherlock said in a hushed voice. The doctor must have had no idea how aroused he was this quickly. "John, I can't-"

"Shh" John said again, smiling fiendishly. "We'll get to that."

He landed a wet kiss on Sherlock's neck, running his hands down his tights. His touch was confident and skilled – Sherlock felt enlarged member throb inside his pants painfully.

John kissed him again, slowly and teasingly, only the tip of his tongue running across Sherlock's lips; the younger man leaned in hungrily, but John pulled away, only to give him a small taste.

Sherlock groaned in frustration and his face shaped in an apologetic grin, mixed with desire, having failed to keep silent as John instructed him to.

"Moan all you want." John said, his thumb sliding close to Sherlock's erection, but not quite close enough. "I like the sound of it."

This John. This John was something else completely. Sherlock might have given following John's commands a second thought if he wasn't leaking pre-cum inside of his pants, desperate to be touched and licked and sucked by that man, who teased him to the point where Sherlock thought he was about to go mad.

"Strip." John said. "Everything."

He obeyed. As soon as he slid out of his pants, his erection shot upwards, finally freed from the tight trousers and he let out a silent 'ah', trying his best not to touch himself as he so badly wanted to. He couldn't wait so long, John must know that.

John peered inside the drawer of the end table beside the bed and inside, he found what he was looking for. He opened the small bottle, and poured some silicon based liquid on his fingers.

"Spread your legs." John instructed and Sherlock complied. He felt John the tip of John's middle finger rub him at the entrance and he let out a moan of frustration. He wanted John to touch his cock, but the doctor had other ideas. With his free hand, the older man spread Sherlock's legs wider apart, and helped one of his feet up to the surface of the bed. His finger slithered inside slowly.

"Ah! Mhmm… John…" Sherlock huffed, feeling John touching his insides. His vision grew blank and he closed his eyes, trembling with such carnal desire he hadn't thought possible. John's finger curled inwards then slid out of him, only to be pushed inside deeper. Sherlock felt John push it until it had disappeared inside of Sherlock to the knuckle, sliding gently in and out, each trust harder than the last.

Sherlock's muscles tightened around it in reflex and John slowed down, rubbing the tight barriers from inside and stretching him.

"Nhnnngg" Sherlock clenched the sheet. He couldn't. God, he couldn't anymore.

John's second finger slid in eagerly, and both of them curled to touch Sherlock's sensitive spot. He gasped.

"John. I.. mhm… I won't be able t-… mmmm…" John applied pressure more confidently as he saw Sherlock barely able to speak. His fingertips were soft and slippery.

"Can you come from prostate simulation alone? Shall we see?" John asked, massaging him from the inside. Sherlock was too proud to beg, but John could see how painfully erect his cock was. He hadn't touched it once. The clear pre-cum was running down from the tip down, Sherlock whimpered silently. John licked his lips and gently tasted the drops that ran down the side.

"Oh John oohh… Ah… nhnn…" Sherlock panted. "Almost-" he managed to say.

"Good. Come for me." and having said that, John took Sherlock's cock into his mouth, and gave it a good tasting.

"Ah!" Sherlock's deep moan reached John's ears. "Mhm, yes. Yes. Mhmmm."

Now that one of his hands were free, John undid his own pants and started stroking himself, knowing well Sherlock won't hold on much longer. The time of teasing or discomfort was over. He wanted to give Sherlock the best orgasm he ever had.

John pushed a third finger inside and spun all three in a spiral like motion as he pulled in and out, his mouth working with Sherlock's tip like an ice cream cone. Sherlock's hands grabbed hold of his head and pushed him down; John opened wider and let Sherlock's cock slide deeper inside, his fingers pressing hard on his prostate.

"Oh John ohhh yes, yes, mhmmmm!" John felt Sherlock cum inside of his mouth, his hands grasping John's hair painfully. His whole body trembled and back arched, muscles tightened. John stroked himself violently until he too caught up with his lover, and moaned around Sherlock's cock.

John held Sherlock inside of his mouth until he had shot every bit of his cum, then pulled away and swallowed it all. He pulled his fingers out and Sherlock lay down on the bed, panting, covering his face with the back of his arm.

John grabbed the tissues and helped himself, his body relaxed because of the orgasm, but not his mind. He watched Sherlock lay on the bed sideways, breathing heavily, worrying he had been too much for Sherlock's first.

He climbed onto the bed beside and gently removed Sherlock's arm from his face. The detective's cheeks were painted pink, his mouth open, gasping for air. His eyes met John's but his gaze was vacant.

"Alright?" John asked hesitantly, having never seen Sherlock like this.

"I couldn't last longer, John." He said.

John smiled softly. "I know. Are you okay?"

"I never thought it would be like this. I thought I'd go mad-" he said, his face slightly guilty.

He had lost his mind completely. He knew what he had to do, but once John had touched him right, everything grew blank and all the thoughts that remained chanted _yes yes yes_ in unison. He failed to do what he knew he _should_ have done. It bothered him, such lack of self-control during the process. Still, it was hard to feel bad when he had just been so thoroughly pleasured, the climax so intense his eyes rolled to the back of his head for a good few seconds.

"Mhm yeah I could tell." John brushed Sherlock's hair away from his forehead. While Sherlock was completely naked, the doctor was still fully dressed. "Enjoyed watching it, too." he smiled. Sherlock sat up.

"Sleep here tonight?" he asked.

"Yeah, let me just get dressed for the night." John said, standing up. As he walked out of the room, Sherlock fell on his back again, thinking over the change in John's tone of voice. All cute jumpers and tea, but once his cock got hard… Oh, what an interesting side John had. Perhaps, it was worthy of some further exploration?

* * *

When John returned to Sherlock's room dressed in his sleeping clothes, he found the younger man had changed too. He lied under the cover straight as an arrow, only his fingers and face peeking out. He looked almost… childish this way.

"Which side do you want?" Sherlock asked. "I tend to wake in the middle of the night and go to the sitting room, so it would be logical if I slept closer to the door."

John wanted to say such things were irrelevant for one night arrangement. Except, it was probably not a one night arrangement, was it? The way Sherlock talked, it was obvious he was making plans to make John a permanent factor in his sleeping arrangements.

"Are you sure? You know, I'm not going to be so entertaining every night." John said, thinking that perhaps an _occasional_ visit to Sherlock's bed would have been smarter.

"Tomorrow, I'm turning your room into a lab." Sherlock said, and not a single word was uttered with humour. John laughed and climbed into the bed, turning to his side. Sherlock wrapped around him like an octopus. John kissed his forehead.

"Goodnight." he whispered.

"Goodnight, John."

* * *

Upstairs, in John's room, on his bed, lied an invitation to Scotland Yard's Christmas party. _John Watson & guest_. It will be one Christmas party no one will ever forget.

* * *

**Author's note:** by this point, your reviews determine how long this story is going to be. I personally am leaning towards ending it with two or three chapters. Tell me what you think. A big response to my story means a faster update!


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